


The Cat & The Clown

by 15stitches



Series: His Toy Box [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Drinking, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Relationship, F/M, Graphic Violence, Gun Kink, Kidnapping, Mental Illness, Murder, Other, Pistol Kink, Plot!, Profanity, Reader Insert, Reader-Insert, Recreational Drug Use, Second person POV, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Torture, cross dressing, gender neutral reader, mature content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-04-27 01:39:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 82,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14414886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/15stitches/pseuds/15stitches
Summary: Leto!Joker X Reader.Your Prophetic hallucinations have gotten you in trouble for as long as you’ve had them. With a shiny new criminal record, a new identity and a meager plan for vengeance against your ex-employer, you find yourself on the run from the GCPD after escaping Arkham with none other than the Joker himself. With the last of your meds gone, the hallucinations become more frequent and disturbing, threatening to unravel what little you’ve built in the ashes of the Joker’s betrayal. Are you clever enough to survive a second run-in with the quickly rising Clown Prince of Crime or have you worn out your welcome?*Trying for gender-neutral Second Person P.O.V.*





	1. Keep Calm & Shank On

**Author's Note:**

> My hand-drawn map of Gotham City for the "His Toy Box" Series can be found here: https://i.imgur.com/lhbi47u.jpg?1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING* This chapter contains graphic violence.

****Chapter 1: Keep Calm & Shank On** **

Exhaust from the Gotham Fast-Track bus clouds the air in gray fog. The hum of the bus’ engine fades as it sails down the road, making a sharp right toward its next stop. With a hard exhale through your nose, you clear the stench from your sinus. It’ll be a long walk home in the cold from Cameron Street. It usually took you seventeen minutes if you walked briskly the entire way - just under twenty city blocks to Schnapp Ave. The hike was almost a mile. Nothing like home-sweet-home in the projects of Gotham City to wake you up after an all-nighter at work.

Tiredly, you lean against the raised crosswalk button paying little attention to the people around you. Most of them loitering about take the bus with you each week except for two - a man and woman standing silently and still. The man is tall, about six foot with long brown hair pulled back into a tight bun, eyes lined with black. The woman’s bleach blond head is half shaved, the remaining half pulled back into a thimble-sized ponytail that protrudes awkwardly from the back of her head. Her chin is pointy and her jaw is rather square. Her face is heavily made up.

The sun is just rising - morning rush hour just hitting as commuters jam up the intersection as you wait to cross the street. Sirens wail loudly as emergency workers rush by toward their next adrenaline fix. The sound of a sports car growls in the distance as you lean harder against the button, impatient for the apricot-colored hand to morph into the ghostly stick figure signaling you to walk. Anxiously, you glance at your watch and feel each second tick by - what little free time you have slipping away. Before long it’ll be time to sleep and then work all over again.

A frigid breeze splices through the sparse protection of your hoodie. Soft white puffs of air release from your lungs into the chilly Autumn air. They float away and disperse, the cold metal of the button seeping beneath the fleeting warmth of your cheap hoodie. The buttondown work blouse beneath is uncomfortable, the tag chafing at the skin of your neck. Scratching to relieve some of the discomfort, you yank the tag off the back of the shirt, scowling at the offending tab of fabric. Your overeager pull has ripped a seam, the tearing sound muted by the cityscape.

The sports car is closer now - louder and very fast by the sound of it’s roaring engine. Your heterochromatic eyes drag back to the group milling around you - three people take to the street and jay walk to the other side, dodging oncoming cars with their drivers cursing out the window, giving the finger, or laying on their horns.

On the other side of the road a young couple laughs as they leave the bar across the street, arms slung around each other. You recognize them. They live in your complex on the fourth floor, just below yours. They’re nice, always chipper and smiling. Matt and Bradley. You smile at the sight of them.

Your eyes bounce around the other people waiting, landing on the two you don’t recognize. It’s unusual for a new face to ride the bus on a weekday. A silent trigger is pulled in your brain - right hand falling to your side to finger the pocket knife clipped casually to the shallow front pocket of your hoodie. The metallic purple clip functions as a deterrent to those paying attention. Rarely having had to use it, you can’t help but feel tense. Right now, something feels different. The very air is thick with unspent tension and you’re starting to feel on edge. Your heartrate picks up and your palms start to sweat through the cold - a clear indication that your meds have worn off. __Fuck__.

_The hand signal begins to flicker, fluttering before the fingers wiggle, their joint-less lengths flopping awkwardly like rubber insects. It flashes before slowly - so slowly - a second hand cytokinetically peels away from the first. Both of them signal you with their floppy fingers._

A silent gasp escapes your lips as a puff of air releases from your mouth. You avert your eyes, tongue wetting your lips in nervousness. Lips parting, fingers shaking, you squeeze your eyes closed and focus on your breathing. You imagine Dr. Murphy’s calming voice - telling you to _focus, breathe, focus, breathe_. You try hard not to react further to the hallucination. Your left hand squeezes at the empty pill container in the olive drab purse slung across your body.

“Christ,” you exhale softly, a white puff of warm air escaping your mouth once again. You dig in your purse and squeeze the empty cigarette box within, scowling. Figures. Empty and it isn’t a pay week, so there goes _that_  coping strategy to seeing shit again.

A car horn blares, then another. The sports car roars into sight, the violet light beneath the Vaydor making your eyes grow wide as it screeches around the far corner and around two other cars to cross the double yellow line. It races toward the intersection. Everyone knows that car; It’s been on the news and in the paper enough to be a symbol of the city.

_A muffled grunt comes from the apricot hand across the street._

The traffic light changes to red, the crosswalk is safe.

 _The signal changes, the solid white stick figure flailing at you now. A steadier flow of “mm, shrr vnn mm,”_ floats to your ears from the “walk” signal - muffled sounds that make the hair raise on the back of your neck.

Gooseflesh sprouts in the shiver’s wake - a decision being made quickly.

The sports car revs its engine as races toward the crosswalk. Shouting echoes from somewhere in the near distance; it sounds like fighting. The blond woman approaches on your left, the man moving to your right as the group moves slowly toward the crosswalk. Your throat convulses on the swallow. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_! Your heart pounds hard in your chest as adrenaline shoots into your bloodstream, making your hands start to shake violently, the tremors wracking your body so hard your teeth chatter before you clench your jaw.

Seizing the opportunity, you sprint across the intersection - the Vaydor screeching to a halt as you run in front of it - hellbent on dealing with the hallucination quickly to focus on the two strangers from the bus. The blond woman and tall man’s gazes meet in silent communication across the street among the crossing pedestrians.

Shaking fingers pull out an ever-ready Sharpie and you lean up, drawing a mouth on the smooth glass of the signal, _the words clearly coming out now - no longer muffled, “He’s coming.”_  Dread fills your stomach, a shudder tossing your shoulders back.

“No,” you scowl.

__“_ He’s coming! He’s coming!” _

“No!,” you grit your teeth, a tiny bubble of spit landing on your bottom lip. You lick it away angrily, reaching back up with your Sharpie. Your shaking off-hand draws lines zig-zagging across the lips, effectively sewing them closed while your right slips the knife from your pocket and your thumb nestles against the blade’s release. Car horns are signaling a problem at the intersection, but you have no time to look. The voice murmurs to you again, “rm, cmg, shd, hr.”

Panting raggedly, hopelessness fills you up. A strange thought occurs to you, you start to _sad_  that you aren’t going to see your shitty apartment today. That feeling - the tension from earlier - it’s exploding through your veins now. The adrenaline has you on high alert. With practiced movement, your left thumb slips the Sharpie’s cap back on and you drop it to free your left hand - eyes locking onto the two strangers heading right toward you now.

The blond from the bus slams her shoulder into you, stopping just in time to see you stumble at the force of it. The male is on the other side, catching your shoulders, gripping them hard, laughing.

“Look, Trix, we got ourselves a loon,” he cackles, a small red diamond tattooed on the right side of his neck giving his allegiance away. He’s appraising you, leaning his head to the side so you can see him up-close. A day’s worth of stubble sprouts over of his lower jaw, connecting his sideburns to his five-o’clock shadow. The man is a foot taller than you, his long arms easily holding you at bay. His green eyes are vibrant in his excitement and would be nice to look at if he wasn’t a prick.

The woman scoffs, her half-shaved head bringing attention to her sharp features. She’s attractive in a dangerous kind of way, her body so thin she doesn’t have much of a shape except straight up and down in a worn leather jacket and cropped Misfits top. Her skin is pale, dark red lipstick making her look more washed out than her bleached hair. 

The visions often leave you dazed when you’re medicated, but this time you’re alert - the last of your meds having left your system hours ago.

 **Fight**  kicks in.

The thumb of your hand in the shallow pocket of your hoodie extends the blade as your hand slips out of your pocket all in one smooth, practiced motion.

The woman reaches for your cross-body purse, both hands gripping it, ready to pull it over your head, the thick strap refusing to give in to her tugs. “Talking to a fucking pole...She’ll be easy,” her tone is one of boredom. 

“In more ways than one,” her counterpart grins, shoving you back toward the woman, Trix. He doesn’t let go of your jacket, trying to yank it off your shoulders as he shoves you away, one hand gripping the material. Neither of them have noticed the knife yet. 

“Nuts, sure, but hot, too,” Trix grins, clucking her tongue at you. With her arms preoccupied with your purse slung across your body, she stupidly leaves herself vulnerable - a mistake you take advantage of. The man tugs harder at your jacket and you make use of their distraction with your possessions to strike.

 **Time seems to slow**  - your hand slipping up as you slam into Trixie, your left hand grabbing hard onto her shoulder to keep her in place. Using the momentum from the man’s push to drive the knife up at an angle, you stab just beneath Trix’s sternum. In a violent flurry of motion, you throw your elbow back, forcing the blade back in repeatedly, your hand covered in blood before she can even process what’s happened.  

“TRIX?,” The man shouts, seeing her eyes go wide as you adjust your stance, taking the opportunity to twist the knife out of her, your stomach convulsing as you feel things inside her move around the blade before hot blood pours more fervently from her stab wounds. The small purple blade glistens with fresh scarlet as it spills warm and coppery over your hand, your knife coming out with the sickening sound of wounded meat. The violence of the act has your stomach turning, acid working its way up your esophagus. Her blood starts to cool in the cold Autumn air, leaving your hand a slippery mess. Your grip remains tight, knuckles white with the grip that hasn’t let blood beneath it just yet. 

“Cole!,” Trixie chokes in agony as you force her away from yourself with a calculated push. Two things happen simultaneously; Her body falls with a heavy thud and the man wraps one arm high around your chest from behind - the other lower, but not tight enough in his haste. His inability to properly subdue you has a snort escaping you, a sad excuse for a thug indeed. The height difference gives you an advantage against Cole. You twist the knife in your hand - blade facing down - swiping at his arm, catching him near the elbow.

“BITCH!,” he shouts and backs away a step and a half, “YOU’RE DEAD!”

Whirling to face him now, you can hear shouts from far away - the moment still slow in your mind. Horns blare, tires squeal. People are starting to see what’s happening - their panicked cries telling you the cops might be on their way. Your mind flashes an image of the crime boss’ car at the light and your stomach clenches.

Cole tries to step in close to grab you. Slashing sideways to keep him away, you put distance between your body and his. His wounded arm is up in defense, the other reaching for what you assume is a gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Formatting fixed.


	2. Grills ‘N Thrills

****Chapter 2: Grills ‘N Thrills** **

“Oh, COME ON!” a deep voice roars, a car door slamming as you fight for your life. “You can’t handle . . . ONE.  _LITTLE _.__   **GIRL**?,” the voice shouts, louder now - closer. Cole hesitates, glancing over your shoulder before you step in, going for his sternum.

A solid arm slams you chest-first into the crosswalk signal pole and twists your arm back painfully until the knife clatters to the sidewalk. The side of your face hits the cool metal hard, the socket of your eye aching immensely where it made contact.

“What. D’we. Have. _Here_?,” the deep voice rumbles, flicking the pocket knife closed, both of his hands on you again. You gasp as your arm is pulled harder at a terrible angle, a breath warming your ear before the voice comes again.

Bright spots flash behind your eye at the pain and you use the pole to support your weight. The man who’s pinned you makes a show of admiring the bloody blade of your knife as he retrieves it. “Ooh. This Kitten has _claws _!__ ,” he purrs excitedly, large hands sliding slowly down your arms, curling his fingers to drag his short nails hard against your sleeves. You make a small frightened noise. _That voice_  . . .

Cole loses his balance, staring fish-mouthed at the one who’s got you pinned. His long legs trip over Trix’s fallen body. The woman is gasping, blood running down her chin, trying to put pressure on her stab wound as a hybrid of pained wheezes and sobs escape her. Cole looks down at her, applying pressure to the wound, cursing loudly, drawing the stranger’s attention.

“ **SHUT. UP** ,” the man shouts - the veins around his eyes bulging, his face turned toward the two failed fucks on the ground. You can see a streak of green hair and your body starts to tremble, your adrenaline surging again with the realization of who has you pinned.

 _ **No** _.__  No, no, nonono. He _left you_ there. He left you to rot! This can’t be happening. _This isn’t happening!_

Roughly, you’re spun around and slammed back against the pole to keep you immobilized. Your head bounces against the metal with a loud _DING_ , your brain smacking against your skull. Blackness takes over your vision as your palms grow sweaty and blood oozes down your fingertips in a steady drip onto the cement. A cry escapes your mouth - eyes squeezed shut against the blinding pain. Your vision swims when the darkness fades, a severe headache making it difficult to focus. Nausea somersaults in your guts and you gulp back the burning of stomach acid. 

Without warning, the stranger leans in close, hands squeezing your shoulders harder, bruising fingers starting to make your muscles tender. His gun is hanging from the index finger of his left hand. His fingers are so long that the firearm hangs easily with room to spare. Creepy. You remember those fucking fingers too well. A shudder crawls up your spine and you tense, suppressing the movement when he leans his body against yours, pinning you to the pole. His weight is making you more nauseous and you turn your face away, a sound indicating you might be sick.

Blinking hard when his long tattooed fingers dig into your chin, you can clearly see the Prince facing you - a dangerous gleam shining in his eyes as he assess your current state. His stare is intense and penetrating, antifreeze hair slicked back–the undercut stylish and attractive. Crimson lips part, his heavy eyes drag over your expression, drinking you in within a span of seconds.

“Hmm,” he drawls, turning your face to the left, then the right, “you look . . . _familiar_.” His bottom jaw slips to the side to show off his grill, the sunlight catching on the metal. His presence exudes power and dominance. For a moment you hope that he doesn’t remember, doesn’t ask. 

A burgundy button-down shirt with the first half of the buttons undone shows off the pale, hairless expanse of his tattooed torso. A shiny eggplant-colored holster accentuates his slim build.

You’re afraid to move your head to nod. He loosens his grip on your chin, dragging his fingertips down your neck, grasping it gently but firmly.

“Careful . . .,” he growls seductively, his breath warming your face as he leans close, his long index finger touching the very tip of your chin. “I like it when you stare.” His eyes dance in the streetlight, telling you he wants to play. The madness inside you wants to play too - having been caged for so long, too long. You dig your nails into your palms and he swats at your hand with his gun, forcing you to open your hand again, his eyes never leaving yours.

The Joker tilts your head up and his brow bone arches, causing lines to form on his forehead. His eyes are arctic blue. Amused at your irises, his own jump theatrically back and forth - left to right, left to right, “brown, green, brown, green. Ooh, ha ha HAAAA!” he cackles, stepping back, his finger remaining under your chin to keep you looking, his mouth gaping open, his head thrown back to stare up at the morning sky.

He’s spinning the gun on his index finger, the stutter of wind from it caressing your cheek, his head tilting to the right. Halting the movement of the gun, he gestures at you loosely with the firearm, finger on the trigger.

“So. . . _**fascinating**_ ,” he purrs, teeth clenched as he leans so close your noses touch. “Those. Eyes. I _re-mem-ber_  those eyes, _Kitten_.” His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth on the last sound, chin tilting up while he stares intensely into your eyes. His pet name sounds like a dirty word from that mouth and you swallow audibly, eyelids fluttering, trying not to black out as spots start to encroach on your vision.

He presses his face against yours now, so close that trying to look at him makes your eyes hurt. “Such a pretty Kitten. Tell me. Tell me, _tell me _,__ **tell me** _ _,__ ” he whispers repeatedly, achingly familiar - fingertips starting at your forehead and moving in opposite directions down, down, down to trace your entire face. “Where have we met, _hmm_?”

Licking your lips in nervousness, you blink slow, trying hard to remember under duress - wisdom in the eyes that calculate you. They widen and he tilts his head to stare at you intently, waiting for the answer.

“Arkham,” you whisper.

“Yeeeees, yes, yes!,” he says, clenching his jaw at the end before he leans back - abruptly a foot away now. He open his mouth wide, dragging his lower jaw to the side before continuing, his eyes flitting up to the sky and then back to your face.

“Schizo. Scratched my back in more ways than one,” he smirks. “You. It’s coming to me now, Kitten. We had a good thing going, yes?”

“Sure,” you breathe, closing your eyes for only a second before looking back to the man before you. _A good thing? What an asshole._

“Your conversations with inanimate objects is a bit cliche–” he whispers loudly, motioning with the index finger of one hand and the gun with the other - swirling them around the sides of his temples in tight circles, grinning. His hair falls from its place, strands parting as they slide down beside his right eye, making him look rather unhinged if you do say so yourself . . .

“Your lovely knife though, almost makes up for all the _**cray-z**_  in that pretty little head.” He taps your head gently with the barrel of the gun, making you flinch in fear. “I must admit. The colors . . . _appeal_ to me,” he continues deeply, voice rumbling through his throat, grill gleaming in the streetlight again, lips parted.

He smiles maniacally, your shudder making him smile wider. He’s ambidextrous. Gun in his right hand now, motioning frequently with his left, he can use both hands equally well. That poses a problem if you have a hope in hell of escaping. Your heart hammers in your chest, begging to break free from your body as your breath comes in shallow gasps.

“So, Doll. You managed to **shank** …,” he roughly toes Trixie’s face to the side to reveal the red Joker diamond tattoo on her neck. He continues, a breathy whisper, “one of mine. Nicely _executed_ , I must say,” he laughs, “ha HA! Get it?” You nod too many times, wanting to make a show of agreeing. Your head explodes in pain at the movement and you reflexively move to clutch at it. The man above you slams your arms down against your sides.

“Nuh uh-uh, Doll. None of that.” He growls, eyes wide as he stares at you hard, eyeing your bloody hand, bringing it up to inspect it under the streetlight. He traces a particularly thick globule of blood, coating the tip of his finger. Smiling, he leans toward you again. You flinch, his eyes cataloging your physical response to him as he traces your lips with the blood of the dying woman, tilting his head back with a loud, “ha HA HAA!”

He drags his bloodied finger down your bottom lip, smearing the blood down the center of your chin. Dropping his finger after he’s dolled you up, the Joker swipes at his hair, making sure it’s in place before turning to inspect the walking signal. A smear of red stains his hair. The spot bothers you, but you’re not about to point it out.

In the blink of an eye his demeanor changes, becoming serious now. All the laughter dies from his mouth - his eyes two cold chasms of arctic ocean.

“Now, why’d,” he moves closer, “ya’ do,” he whispers, “ _that _?,”__  growling the last word.His teeth are clenched, eyes dark and dangerous as something frightening stares back at you. He terrifies you with that one look. You can smell the bitterness of coffee on his breath. His teeth seem to take up your entire vision as they snap at the side of your face, growling softly when you flinch.

“They were gonna rob me, rape me,” you breathe, proud when your voice doesn’t shake. Your Sharpie is on the ground at your feet. You try not to move, a small stutter of sound coming from the Joker but not from his own mouth. You whimper at the impending hallucination, your forehead lined with stress as your eyebrows furrow, eyes closing. You fight the urge to bring your hands up to your ears, feeling your palms start to sweat - a sign that it’s about to happen again and soon.

Your teeth bite your bottom lip hard, flinching when he does not back away, instead grabbing hard at your mouth to force your eyes open and back to him. “Look. At. Me,” he breathes deeply - his voice reverberating in your chest, his body so close, too close.

“The penalty for killing one of MY people is **death**!,” he yells, grasping the pole on either side of you with a loud CLANG as his rings hit the metal on the last word. Flinching, you lean your face away from him before thinking better of it and turn to face him head-on once again. He scowls and runs his tongue along his top row of teeth.

The Joker’s blue eyes dart back to the newly-mouthed crosswalk hand signal and then again back to you, his index finger seeming to tap the air, expression thoughtful, his left hand cupping his jaw in a dramatic enactment of “thinking.”

“Why a mouth? _Hm_?,” he says with a lilting voice dripping with bravado.

“I hear things,” you whisper, staring at him, glancing down at your abandoned Sharpie. Afraid to move for fear of being shot, you stand still.

“Yes, yes, we’ve _established_  that already. You’re a fucking schizo,” he scowls, palms open on either side of his head - gun still clutched in his right. “But since you’ve . . . _ **inspired**_  me tonight. . .I’ll make an exception,” he purrs, eyes boring into you. He comes real close again, draping his left hand in front of you. His palm is tilted down, showing a large ring level with your face. Without hesitation, you lean forward, kissing his ring with your bloodied lips, eyes on his face. His gold ring - now rimmed with crimson, causes him to grin and he pretends to swoon dramatically, holding his ringed hand over his heart as he twists backward.

“Just. This. Once,” he menaces, holding one finger in front of your face. He leans in closer to your ear, whispering something you can’t hear over the high-pitched keen of the new voice you know is in your head. He holsters his gun.

_“DOLL FACE. I’M TALKING TO YOU.”_

Unable to take the strange noise, you quickly grab the Joker’s right arm and yank his button-down shirt sleeve up. Intrigued by what you’re doing, he allows it, watching you like a predator getting ready to pounce. When you have trouble sliding the burgundy material past his wrist, he flicks the button open at his pulse point, watching you with a brow raised in interest. You push the sleeve up to his elbow, revealing the large grin tattoo that’s been speaking to you. Using the blood from your hand, you quickly paint scarlet stitches over the lips, hands trembling.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” you whisper, tears leaking their way down your face at the empty expression on his face. You didn’t mean to touch him, you just needed that _Not-Joker_  voice to stop talking. The hallucination’s acknowledgement allows your brain to process your situation fully. A sob escapes your mouth, the tears come in waves, your lips bitten closed as he stares heavily at you without any expression at all.

He grips your chin again, this time gently, eyes boring into yours, he wipes at one of your tears, rubbing it into the skin of your cheek by circling his thumb.

“It stops the voices,” you whisper by way of explanation, closing your eyes, forcing a new wave of tears out, not realizing you’re still cradling his arm.

“Mm,” he coos, curling the arm you hold around your torso, tugging you against his solid body. Amusement lights his eyes. The blood smears, but the hallucination is gone.

“ _You_ ,” he growls deeply, grasping onto your hand while hooking his arm around your waist, spinning you in a strange dance around the vandalized signal light; “Are coming with me.” He says it rather wistfully, waltzing with you around the black pole, around his dead crony - the woman lying still while the man above her seethes at you, subdued with his boss around. “You’ll take her place.”

“But, Boss, she - “ Cole begins. The Joker ignores him, continue to sway with you.

“Okay,” you reply, unable to look away as he spins you around and around. When you finally stop abruptly in front of the crosswalk, you lift his left hand, the one he had you kiss, and tilt your head, using your bloodied fingers to draw a mouth on it. Intrigued, he holds the new piece of art to his mouth and cackles, “HA HA HA HAAAA!”

Spinning you rather wildly off the sidewalk, you squeal in dizziness and wonderment, starting to become rather nauseous again. Cars blare their horns as the Joker leads you into evening traffic - tires squealing once again, the loud crunch as people crash has you jolting in his arms. He maneuvers you to the passenger side of his Vaydor and flings the door open as he’s got you bent backward in a final pose - your arms flung dramatically. His cackling is loud with his body close and he yanks you back up abruptly before he shoves you into the passenger seat with no grace at all you tumble inside, smacking your knees on the dashboard. He slams the door  _just_ as you get your second leg inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Formatting fixed.


	3. aMUSEment Mile

****Chapter 3:** ** ****aMUSEment Mile** **

“Clown got your tongue?” he smirks, reaching out to run his fingertips down your pant leg. You cringed away from his touch and he smiles.

“That bad, huh?” He levels you with a sober look and you turn to face him.

“Can I please have my knife back?”

“No.”

“Why?” He gives you a look that leaves you feeling scolded and you sigh without a sound, your shoulders rising and falling as you watch the landscape fly by. The sun is higher in the sky now - basking everything in a golden light.

“Zip your coat up,” he commands, swerving the sports car off an exit and through a red light. With shaky hands, you yank the zipper up on your hoodie, completely covering your bloody shirt. The purple car careens down a small side street before coming to an abrupt stop that has you lurching against your straining seatbelt with a groan of pain. Your rib and head ache with the movement.

He tisks at your crimson hand. Glancing up at the storefronts, you see a laundry mat, a tattoo parlor, and a pizzeria. The Joker heads for the center door and yanks it open, bells jingling merrily at his entrance. He tugs you along, his hand clasped tight on your elbow.

A young woman pokes her head out from a back room, calling, “I’ll be right there!” The sound of a sink and heels as the young woman walks down a small hallway to the front of the store where the two of you stand. The Joker ignores her, but you take her in. She’s got black hair dyed in an ombre to violet at the ends and it’s pulled back in a retro fashion. Her tall heeled boots show off her slender legs, but the Joker is making himself at home in her tattoo chair, unbuttoning his right sleeve and carefully folding it up and over his arm. Flippantly, he points to you. “My muse, _Kitten_.”

The woman forces a smile, holding her hand out to introduce herself, “Rayna.” Smirking, you stick your bloody hand out and grasp hers firmly. She winces back at your hand and puts space quickly between you by taking a seat on a swiveling stool beside where the man of the hour sits. He grins at your passive aggressive show and gives his iconic laugh, “ha HA ha.”

He holds the hand-art you had painted earlier on the back of his palm so it covers his mouth. “Big grin, no grill, red lips.” He motions for you to come over and you do, glancing around at the pre-made art.

“Small red diamond,” he motions for you to lean closer to him. Averting your eyes, you kneel beside the reclined chair. Rayna watches as he turns your chin toward the large storefront window and rubs a small circle on the side of your neck with his thumb, “here.”

“Sure thing, Boss,” she nods, getting to work right away on his hand. She uses wet paper towels to clean the blood off. She pats it dry. The Boss doesn’t pay her much mind, just watches out the window at passing traffic, seemingly lost in thought.

A short while later, Rayna stands and swipes at the new tattoo on his hand multiple times to clear the excess ink away. “All done. How’s it look?”

The Joker holds the hand up to his mouth and cocks an eyebrow at you. You smile wide, blushing a little at his use of your heat-of-the-moment decision to graffiti him. He reaches out, palm up and you place your bloodied hand into his. He sits up straight and yanks you hard into his lap. Rayna pretends not to notice as she gets a new set of needles ready and changes her gloves.

“Relax, Kitten. You’re gonna be here for a while,” he whispers quietly into your ear as he rearranges your body to lay flush against him. Rayna waits and you glance at her, your jaw set. You see __something__  flash across her expression and turn your head away so she can tattoo the side of your neck. The needles sting at first and the pain begins to build the more she goes over and over the same small area of skin.  

“You’ll need to be still once I start. It won’t take long.”

The hem of his pants lifts when he rearranges his feet beneath yours and you laugh unexpectedly at his socks, closing your eyes. His Batman socks have you smirking in mirth at him as you lay back-to-his-chest and he grins, a contented hum rumbling through his chest and into your back.

There’s a pause in Rayna’s movements, he eyes darting between you and the Boss. You can feel her attention and it makes your skin crawl. She begins to clean the skin in the general area of your neck he had pointed out earlier to remove the excess ink. The Joker is very still beneath you save for his breathing and you wonder for a moment if maybe he’s sleeping. Rayna pausing in her cleaning.

Raising an eyebrow at the Boss, you twist away from him when he nuzzles the nape of your neck. Rayna stands somewhat abruptly and begins to discard the needle, quickly wiping at the area one last time. You hear a door close down the hall and take the moment to relax a little by closing your eyes. The pinching pain in your neck grows the longer you sit still. When the stinging becomes a hot pain, you gasp just as the Boss sits up, forcing you with him. His abdomen tenses behind you with the added weight of your body and you lean back, accidentally resting your hand on him for leverage to stand.

Like a striking snake, he grabs your hand, smirks, and slips it beneath his shirt to gauge your reaction. Remaining as neutral as possible, you wait for him to be done, the pain in your neck almost unbearable after all that’s happened so far today. Exhaustion pulls at your eyelids and you turn your face to look out the large storefront window. Rayna cleans the space silently and heads behind the glass counter - her heels clicking quietly.

The sound seems to snap the Boss out of whatever strange test he’s performing on you. His pants are still a little too high in the leg since he stood, his black and yellow socks glaring up at you. You bite your bottom lip to keep from laughing out loud at those socks and pretend to cough to keep from giggling aloud. You skin feels like it’s on fire in that spot and you hiss at your own movement

“Looking okay?” He tilts your head to the side, straining the muscle in your neck, his nose brushing the taught skin as he looks _real_ close.

“Perfect,” he breathes against your neck, popping the ‘p’ sound. It causes you to jump. He pays Rayna with cash, taking one of her cards and sliding it into the top opening of your hoodie. He offers you a hand. You raise an eyebrow at the unexpected gesture, taking his hand. Rayna forces a smile and a “thank you” as you leave the parlor. He keeps a tight hold on your fingers as he nods to Rayna and heads back out to the Vaydor.

“Does yours hurt?,” you ask into the silence of the car, looking at the new tattoo on the side of your neck. The skin all around it is red as fuck.

“You get used to it,” he sighs, yawning. Taking a closer look to inspect his tattoo, you watch his hands grip the steering wheel.

“This brings back memories, Kitten,” he grins.

“I thought you didn’t remember how we met,” you taunt, chewing one side of your cheek, not sure if you really want to engage in conversation about this.

“OH. I _remember _,”__ he purrs, “do _you_?”

This feels like another game, is he trying to test you? See if this will make you angry? Gauge your reaction of your last . . . encounter? A shiver travels up your body at the thought and you shift uncomfortably.

“What do you remember?,” you hedge, nails biting into your palms to keep from chickening out and looking away from him.

“OH-HO! You sure, _Kitten_?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” you say, voice firm. He glances sideways at you and shrugs.

“I remember you writhing in my lap. A little game of keep it on the road,” he grins, walking his fingers across the center console toward your leg. “Your scream is perfect, Kitten. _Purrrfect_ , ” his voice is husky in the otherwise quiet of the early morning. Your face burns with embarrassment at the truth he says aloud and you curse inwardly at your self. What had you honestly expected him to say?

“Blushing now? Care for a repeat?,” he cackles, slapping his leg with mirth.

 _He’s asking this time?_ , you wonder, a lump tightening your throat, preventing you from answering. His fingers walk to your leg where he squeezes your knee through your jeans and scratches at the skin showing through the faded fabric.

“No,” you say though the slightly breathless sound of it has his smirk widening.

“Now Darlin’. No lying to Daddy,” he says, expression serious, a warning in his tone.

“I’m not.”

“Tsk, tsk,” he says, smirking, shaking a finger at you. “Don’t. Lie.”

“You don’t get attached. I don’t either. It’s not about _sex _.__ ”

“Enlighten me,” he says, palm up, wiggling his fingertips as if to coax understanding from the very air.

“You raped me after I helped you. I’m not going to fucking __ask__  you to do it again,” you say stiffly, your face flushing in humiliation at having to say it aloud.

“It’s nothing personal _ _,_ Doll _,”__  the change of pet name lets you know he’s irritated with you. His jaw twitches down and to the side, showing off his teeth in anger. His nails dig hard into your knee, you fight hard not to jump from the touch. You dig your own nail into your bloodied palm and scoff.

 _ _“__ What do _you_  call non-consensual sex?”

“Did you say no?”

“Yes! I did!”

“I don’t recall,” he makes of show of pretending to think back.

“It’s **not**  up for debate,” you say, anger starting to make your tongue faster than your filter. His fingers grip the very edge of your pants and he starts to pull at the rip, forcing the fabric to tear down the leg.  

“ **NO**! It **is**  if **I say**. It. Is,” he says quietly, his tone demanding your attention. Your eyes follow his hands from the steering wheel to his gaze as he stares straight ahead. You can feel his attention on you and you smirk, shaking your head. The anger inside you is about to explode - your thresh-hold for bullshit overflowing.

“ _Fuck_. _You_ ,” you say, immediately registering that you are going to pay for that unfiltered bit of sass.

“See, now _that_  sounds like consent to me,” he hedges, voice dangerous, letting his foot off the gas pedal. The car slows rather quickly to a crawl. His newly tattooed wrist is red - the skin irritated from the new artwork. He flicks a fourth button open from his shirt and then a fifth, staring straight ahead as his hips lift off the seat and he slips his belt from his waist. His shirt sags open where the pocket is and he watches your eyes take in that little detail. He smirks, confidence oozing off of him.

Cars around you start to honk their horns as he lets the car roll, veering toward the breakdown lane. He unbuttons the next and the next until his shirt is gaping open, revealing the pale, hairless expanse of his chest. The shirt pools on either side and he leans over the center console toward you. You lean back, away from him, crushing your back against the door, scrabbling for the door handle. He locks it, reaching for you.

You start to fight him, but then go limp as he pulls at your body and yanks you over and onto his. He arranges your legs so you’re straddling him. Your hands go to his shoulders as he turns your head to look down at him. Your hands clutch his body, nails digging in. You can feel the warmth of his skin beneath you and you start to shake, looking away.

“Do you feel powerful now?,” you ask evenly.

“Always,” he whispers, the car still steering itself to the edge of the road where it stops at a dangerous angle, the rear-end sticking into traffic. He makes no move to fix it, just sits beneath you. Your hands slide down his chest, leaning forward while your eyes fix onto his. His pupils dilate - a small sign that he _wants_  this. His stay wide open as you pause halfway to his lips, your left hand splayed on the warm skin of his torso. He inches forward until his breathing touches your lips - just a brush of skin without purposeful contact.

“Do you?” he breathes, his lips brushing fully against yours with the question. He’s staring into your eyes and this close it makes you dizzy to stare back.

“No,” you exhale and he arches his back to surge toward your mouth, kissing you hot and hard. A strange feeling blooms in your chest - a kind of satisfaction that he caved first. HE CAVED FIRST! That fucking bastard. He wants this - _wants_  you.

A sound escapes your mouth and gets swallowed by his. Your right hand slips your knife from his breast pocket. Flicking it open, you hold it against the skin of his neck. He chuckles, lips still pressed to yours. You drink the sound, lapping at his tongue and he groans, pushing against the blade, a bead of blood pooling at the cut. His body stirs beneath yours and then a little puzzle piece falls into place. The pain turns him on, makes him want it. This. He wants _this_  with you. The pain, the hurt, he wants it all.

“No” you say, panting against his lips, leaning back centimeter by centimeter. He growls, snatching the knife from your fingers before shoving you roughly back to the other side of the car.

“Thank you,” you say quietly after he runs his hand through his hair and grips the steering wheel hard. He doesn’t respond, eyes forward. You can tell by the tension in his posture that he’s worked up. Unsure what exactly that means for you in particular, you remain quiet.

The cityscape begins to dwindle as you speed through the warehouse district uptown, headed straight toward the coastline. As the sports car crests a small hill, you sit up in the seat and hold onto the dash to stare out at the rising sight in front of you. Colored lights blink and flicker in the near-distance. Music fills the air outside as you grow closer and your lips part in wonder.

“Jesus Christ,” you whisper, taking in the scene before you, “you’ve been busy.” The crowd parts as he drives straight through the main gates of an impressive amusement park. The sign attached to the twisting roller coaster track reads “Amusement Mile.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Formatting fixed.


	4. Speak, Prophet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any translations will be given in the End Notes. Thank you.

****Chapter 4: Speak, Prophet** **

People dot the landscape around you, testing functional rides and replacing blown colored light bulbs. Some stand around, talking, none of them paying any mind to the purple Vador roaring through the main street.

A large mansion expands the cliff-side overlooking both the amusement park and the Gotham River. The smell of fair food drifts in through the car’s vents. A rumble signals the opening of a garage door - one of seven. The Joker pulls in just as your phone begins to ring in your purse. The sound is loud in the quiet space and he turns his head slowly to look at you as if you’ve lost your mind.

“You gonna answer that?”

“Shit,” you fumble for the device in your purse still slung around your body. Hurriedly, you answer the call and hold it up to your ear, “Hello?”

The sounds from outside are shut out as the garage door closes quietly behind you.

 _“To whom am I speaking?”_ a stranger’s voice announces from the other end of the phone. You scrunch your eyebrows and come up with nothing.

The Joker turns the car off and slips the keys out of the ignition, turning to get out of the vehicle.

“Depends. Who are _you _?__ You’re calling _me_.”

He locks you and alarms you in and smirks as he waves exaggeratedly, tossing the doors open that lead into a spacious foyer. You can’t see beyond that and jump when two shoes are tossed back into the garage.

_“Alright. Name’s Colt. Calling about your . . . intel.”_

“Sure, sure. How can I help you, Colt?”

A small ethnic woman waltzes into the garage, yelling back into the large mansion, motioning to the two expensive dress shoes The Joker had thrown in moments before. She yells at him in quick-fire Italian and shakes her head, muttering to herself when she gets no reply. You can’t understand much of what she’s saying, but the irritation at her employer is evident.

_“I followed your trail of crumbs, girlie. You tell me what the next step is if I’m interested.”_

Irritated at his demeaning tone, you scoff, “Name’s Ruthless. If you like the little taste I sent out, you’ll like the whole package I’m offering. All or nothing. ”

_“Alright, Ruthless. Tonight on the Sprang. There’s a small DOT office about halfway.”_

You roll your eyes at the man on the other end, __fucker thinks I was born yesterday__. “No. Robinson Park at ten tomorrow night.” 

 _“Sure, sure, gir-Ruthless. I’ll be there. See you then.”_ You hang up and push the button to unlock the car doors. Just as it unlatches and you push, the alarm blares loudly, a laugh heard from what could be the second floor of the house.

“HA HA HAAA.” You can hear soft footfalls on the staircase visible from the garage. A large granite-floored foyer opens into a grand staircase with ornate railings. Almost everything is marble, the floor and walls - a mix of cream and white with gold filagree. The details are the killer, little card suits carved into the crown molding of the cathedral-height ceiling. A large stained glass dome skylight takes up most of the foyer’s ceiling.

Your mouth parts as you stare up at the opulence of it all, startling back when the little Italian woman struts up to you and says, “Per favore! Togliti le scarpe ** ******* ,” motioning to your feet. You kick your sneakers off and line them against the wall in the garage. The small woman smiles and pats your cheeks gently, her mood shifting quickly at your compliance.

The woman calls to the Joker from the bottom of the stairs, “Mi piace, capo. Non spaventarla! ** ******* ” He motions for her to shoo and rolls his eyes rudely when she tutts down the hallway, snatching up a rag and bottle on her way.

He smirks at your expression, leaning over the banister of the staircase “C’mon Kitten. Don’t keep me waiting.” The grin fades from his face as quickly as it appeared. He remains leaning over the railing, staring at you as you close the garage doors behind you and move toward the staircase. The marble floor beneath you is cold.

You keep your hands down - not wanting to smudge the railing, watching his fingertips trail after him the entire way up. The gold gleams in the very center of the banister, creamy white marble on either side. You marvel at the beauty of this place, surprised to see the crisp, clean colors and elegant designs.

The cathedral ceiling makes sound travel further, the small sounds of the woman cleaning echoing around the rather cold-feeling mansion. For all its grandeur, there’s no small touches that make it feel lived in, like a home.

Two clean cut men stand out front of the french doors centrally located on the second floor. A large golden ‘J’ clearly marks this as an office, the two men stepping aside as the Joker approaches, opening both sets of doors. You pause outside. The green haired man sits on his large oak desk, beckoning to you with a curled finger.

 _ _“__ Business, Kitten. Time is money,” he smiles, opening his hands to motion for you to sit in front of him. You take a seat in the soft leather chair and turn your body to face him, your phone still clutched in your hand.

“Right, right-right. Tell me about your phone call, _Kitten_ ,” he smiles, all false interest and sinewy movement as he slips off the desk to straddle the arm of your chair. The position is very sexual and you look away, setting your jaw when he grabs at your chin and roughly turns your head to look at him.

“ _That _.__  Is going to stop. Right. Now,” he says, eyes serious and depthless as he leans you down so that the back of your head rests against the chair, forcing you to “relax.”  

“Take your coat off, stay a while,” he smirks, motioning for one of the men to take your belongings. You eyeball the man perched above you and unzip your jacket, offering it. He takes it gingerly as if it’s diseased and reaches out the other hand for your purse. You hand that over as well.

Joker motions for your phone and you give that up as well. He snatches that and the goon from the door disappears with your stuff, closing the doors behind him. Gasping, a hand shoves you back down with a firm palm to the center of your chest. The Boss places your head in his lap and balances easily on the chair armrest, staring down at you. It’s an awkwardly intimate position and you fight the humiliated blush that washes your cheeks and neck.

“Three days ago I released encrypted data - a Falcone Warehousing shipping manifest with some interesting product. A man I don’t know called, said his name is Colt. Arranged a business meeting.”

“Mm?” he hums, motioning for you to get to the point.

“I have a meeting tomorrow at ten at Robinson Park. I’m selling information on Falcone. I’m not interested in money, but if I don’t put a price on it no one will bite.”

“So, let me get this straight,” he says, moving to stand up so abruptly your head smacks the armrest while he paces in front of you. You move to stand up and he shoves you back down, holding you down while he leans over you.

“You made a business move. Sitting in my car. In the garage of my house,” he says slowly, staring you down - eyes fathomless.

You shudder at the look and nod slowly, “Yes.”

“And how am I going to benefit?” He leans in close, kneeling down in front of the couch as he sinks closer and closer, making you feel so anxious you start to think out loud.

“However you want! I can blackmail him, sell him to Falcone and kill both of them. You’d acquire the money, territory, credit, and your pick of their people.” He stops leaning in and sits up, running his tongue over his top row of teeth. You watch the movement, unsure of what that reaction means.

“I LIKE IT!” he shouts, clapping his hands together in front of your face. You blink at the motion. Your palms begin to tingle and sweat, your irises dilating. All movement stopping save for your shallow breaths. Lips parting, the Joker’s office fades away, replaced by sounds.

Staring past the wall, beyond the window, you hear someone whispering then laughing - a woman’s voice. The sound of her speaking is comforting. A single tear slips from one of your eyes as the woman’s voice grows louder, closer. 

Peering down into your face, the Joker takes in your dilated eyes, the way your lips part, the shallow breathing and stillness of your body. Snapping a finger in front of your face, you do not react, your eyes unblinking.

Touching your cheekbones softly with his thumbs, he traces the lone tear, capturing it on his fingertip before it falls from your chin. He raises it to his lips, tongue absorbing the salted droplet.

Your pupils blow wide at the loud whisper that fills your head: a deep inhale as she speaks.

 And just like that, you’re there but not - catatonic to the man in front of you.

 _ _“_ Give me your Cheshire smile, Jack,” _a sultry feminine voice giggles in your mind.

“Give me your Cheshire smile, Jack,” you breathe, unaware that you are speaking aloud.

“What?” a distant voice rasps, but you cannot focus. Your mouth is open so wide that saliva is starting to seep out the corner, unresponsive.

“ **WHAT DID YOU SAY**?!” the Joker screams, grabbing the front of your shirt to yank you off the couch and straight to the hard wood floor. When you don’t respond, he slaps the side of your face hard enough to snap your head to the side. Your lip splits at the force of it, blood seeping into your mouth as your face lights on fire. At the taste of blood, your brain signals _fight _,__ jolting your consciousness back into your body.

A scream claws its way from your throat, loud and screeching as you fight with all the strength you have against his hold. His arms are so long it’s impossible to get a grip on him. Unable to push him off, you yank him forward and bite HARD onto his arm, tasting blood in your mouth. He curses loudly and forces his arm further into your mouth, growling animalistically. The force of his push jars you backward, your head smacking the floor hard. The Joker follows, his face a mask of seething anger as you scream and spit blood in his face. He wipes it with the sleeve of his shirt and rips your shirt open - buttons flying all over the place.

The two men from the door are standing back, waiting for the Boss to give them orders.

Panting so hard his chest bounces up and down, he grabs you by the hair and forces you up to your knees, holding his pistol to your head. Rage morphs his face into something ugly and terrifying. Choking out a strangled sound, your pupils shrink, the taste of blood bringing you back to the present.

Your mouth closes, bloody drool settling on your chin as fear taints the air around you. Tears leak out of the corners of your eyes and you stare back at the psychopath before you, waiting for the bullet.

The Joker thumbs back the hammer of his custom 1911. A **__BANG__**  startles you from your stupor, making your ears ring. His arm is pointed at a slumped body on the other side of the long oak desk. The Joker’s other arm holds you down hard, a bruise forming on the center of your chest at the force of it. Clawing at his arms with your nails, you sob in anger and confusion.

Another **__BANG__**  has you cringing, trying to curl in on yourself, away from him, hands still contorted into claws. A steady high-pitched tone fills your ears, but something is wrong. There’s no pain, only the sound of your ears ringing from the close-range gunshots. The Joker heaves above you, the staccato of your own heartbeat roaring in your ears now that some of the muffled sound has seeped back in.

Howling with rage, the Joker points his gun at your temple, panting so hard a sound escapes him every time. He sounds wounded, like something’s broken inside of him. His mouth is all teeth - the metal gnashing together as his jaw works, his other hand smoothing his hair before he spins, biting at his wrist holding the gun - a tortured sound muffled by the flesh in his mouth before he holsters the weapon resolutely.

Teeth marks bruise his skin when he reaches down and grabs the open sides of your ripped button-down. “NO!,” you scream, blood from your lip dripping down the corner of your mouth. Bending, you bite his arm, hard, your saliva and blood ruining the sleeve of his ridiculously expensive shirt. You don’t get the chance to break skin, the butt of his pistol slams into the side of your head with a loud **_WHACK_**.

Your consciousness starts to fade as the darkness takes you. Somewhere farther away, you can hear glass shattering, a woman’s frightened cry, and words. Your body is lifted into the air, jostled roughly, your arm slapping the side of something hard as you’re stuffed into a small space. Someone is speaking.

“You. Have some explaining to do, _Pet _.”__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Per favore! Togliti le scarpe - “Please! Take off your shoes.”  
> Mi pieace, capo. Non spaventarla. - “I like her, boss. Don’t scare her away.”
> 
> Edit: Formatting fixed.


	5. Down By the River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING* This chapter contains torture.

****Chapter 5: Down By the River** **

You come-to in a room with no windows and a single door. Your head feels like it’s splitting open and a strong wave of nausea hits you like a punch to the gut. Digging your nails hard into your palms, you manage to keep from puking. Tears leak from your right eye as you suck a steadying breath in through your nose and survey your prison.

The walls may have once been white, but a thick layer of grime makes it hard to tell. It reminds you of a bare cell without bars. A cell would have more to it: a toilet, a bed, maybe a sink or mirror. This room is void of such luxuries. Graffiti covers the wall with the door, the small window on it sprayed with dark paint, blacking it out.

Your left eye is swollen completely shut. The entire left side of your face is tender and tight to the touch, pulling when your expression morphs into a grimace. A line of drool slips from your mouth and falls with a soft _pat_  on the cement floor.

Tonguing your split lip tenderly to see if the skin has mended enough to weather pressure, you moisten your lips with a swipe of your tongue to lube them. Dizziness at the lack of proper eye sight makes you queasy. Having only one good eye has made it difficult to move around without becoming unbalanced.

The knees of your jeans are frayed from your pacing, rocking, crawling, falling. The handcuffs make it impossible to get comfortable. Sleep rarely comes, and when it does, it’s a pill that is quick to dissolve. The silver lining is that your hands are cuffed in the front of your body; While awkward and painful on your shoulders, it’s still possible to use them for balance or grasping.

The graffiti will pose a problem when the visions come again; coupled with the Joker’s tattoos - it’s a disaster waiting to happen. Anxiety builds - a buzz beneath your skin with no outlet. Refusing to sit, you pace, pace, pace. The movement aggravates your migraine, but you’re so wound up you can’t rest. The pain in your face and your head has made sleep more elusive than ever. Every now and then you stop moving - the dizziness of having one working eye fucking with your balance too much to stay in motion. Agony forces you to sit when your head hurts so acutely you groan, starting to scream to try and alleviate the pressure. Something’s wrong inside, it hurts to be __awake.__  

_Pace._

_Pace._

_Pace._

It must be some small hour of the morning by now, but it’s impossible to tell. It feels like days have passed. A **SLAM** at the end of the hall signals a door hitting a wall. Finally, a noise that tells you life exists beyond these four walls! Men can be heard speaking in muffled tones outside the door.

A shadow beneath the door tells you that Joker’s had someone guarding you. You shrink back from the shuffling outside, tucking your body back into the corner adjacent to the door. The metal hinge creaks loudly as the door swings open. You can make out two figures - black against the blinding light from the hallway. Using your forearm as a shield, you squint toward the light to watch the figures carefully.

A chair is brought in to the center of the room. A man with a tailored suit is standing in the doorway, blocking any escape after the Prince swaggers in - his stride purposeful yet slow. Taking his sweet time while he zeroes in on your location, face a mask of neutrality. He spins the chair easily, sitting so the back faces you, straddling it. His arms cross, resting atop it’s backing, chin on his hands as he stares, silent. There’s more space between you now than there ever has been while you’ve been face-to-face.

Your guts churn at the look he levels you with - one of detached observation. Calculation. Grinding your teeth against his silent stair, you wonder who will cave first until the strong urge to pee has you sighing through your nose. 

“May I use the bathroom?,” you whisper, the sound filling the room like a snake’s angry hiss.

He whistles, a too-loud sound in this tiny space. “Ha HA _haaaaaa_ ,” he grins, standing. Somehow you feel like you’ve disappointed him. He prowls closer to you, real slow like, looking ready to pounce. Taking the last step to close the distance, the Joker squats in front of you. Nothing cracks or creaks when he squats, he’s in shape. A finger traces your blood-stained lip, savoring the way you squeeze your eye closed and flinch away from his touch. Gripping your chin none too gently, “ _look _,__ ” he commands. 

You do, blinking once, twice, before he leans in close with his mouth to your ear. He’s close to the uninjured side of your face. You catalog that piece of information away in your brain. His lips touch the skin there, his words moving across your flesh on a warm breath,“so politely requested. And here I thought you were fucking _craaaazy_ ,” he chuckles the last word, elongating the laugh until it ends in a mad cackle - the sound reverberating through the room.

His hand loosely grips your neck, thumb brushing your throat, pressing just enough to make you uncomfortable. Unexpectedly, he kisses your cheek with a loud smacking sound and hums, all theatrics and bravado.

The Joker stands, expression dark, his demeanor changing in the blink of an eye. Motioning to the man still standing in the doorway, he says, “show our _guest_  to the ladies room before our little **_chit_**  chat.” 

The nameless man doesn’t wait, he’s moving before the Joker even finishes the sentence, walking to the corner of the room to lift you up. You swat his hand away and stand on your own, shielding your eyes from the light beyond the door as he leads you toward it.

The Joker purrs loudly, tongue rolling in his open mouth, “Rrrrr, _fiesty_!”

You’re shoved down the hall to the right and out the hall door. There’s a fist-sized hole in the wall where the handle has been embedded into the sheet-rock innumerable times. Cracked pieces litter the floor in large chunks of whitish gray. A powder makes the floor slippery there. This place is used often.

A sharp left shows you to a tiny bathroom with a filthy toilet and broken sink. The bottom right corner is all that remains of a mirror.

“You have two minutes before I drag you out,” he says, lifting his watch to his face.

You sigh through your nose, “I can’t piss with handcuffs on.”

“Look, lady, does it _look_  like I give a fuck? Take your piss already.” He shoves you hard into the bathroom, slamming the door closed.

Taking advantage of the freedom, you quickly yank at the hips of your jeans, trying to move them side-to-side to get them down fast. 

Sitting down hard on the dirty toilet when they finally sink low enough, you sigh. The sound of your pissing echoes in the small space. A banging knock startles you.

“One minute,” he yells.

“Fuck,” you grind out, grimacing at the lack of toilet paper. Eyes surveying the room, you yank a piece of paper towel from the dispenser, wipe, and flush.

The broken mirror offers an unwanted glimpse of yourself as you stand, trying to shimmy your pants back over your hips. Your face looks like you’ve met the wrong side of a freight train: Your left eye is swollen shut with a nasty bruise ringing the area, dried blood lines your chin and the corner of your mouth, your right hand is still covered in dried blood from . . .

Tears leak out of your right eye again at the very sight of your busted face. A wave of dizziness has you leaning against the wall to keep from tipping over. Just as you’re fumbling with getting your jeans back up (the wiggling proving a bitch with cuffs), the door flies open. Expecting the nameless man in the suit, you bite back the sassy insult and gasp when The Joker barges in.

A provocative rumble escapes his open lips,”hmmm.” His hand remains on the door knob as he eyes you from your scuffed sneakers, up the ripped legs of your jeans with the frayed knees, to your partially-clad hips and parted shirt. Your plain white bra is embarrassing and modest. You blush harder at having only thought of that __now__ , after having spent countless hours half-naked. The pale skin of your body looks sickly beneath the luminescent light. You see his eyes darting toward the naked swell of your hip, iris’ following the line that dips into your jeans. Apparently craziness doesn’t erase gender-typical habits. _Figures._

Swallowing, your hands start to shake, finding it hard to breathe. The chain links from the cuffs tinkle as you wring your fingers to keep from trembling. After an awkward moment of silence, you grasp one of the belt loops of your pants, trying to pull them all the way up and over the swell of your hip.

The Joker stays your movement, his fingertips starting at your shoulder, trailing down your arm, past your elbow and around the front, brushing over your exposed stomach, down to the warm skin of your hip. His lips part, eyes hot with something both exciting and terrifying.

“ _Pretty_  Kitten,” he whispers, his hand gripping your side hard to pull you against his solid body, forcing you to straddle his bent knee. A small, scared sound escapes you, your jaw trembling. Tears make your working eye tingle before the saline drips down your face at the unwanted attention.

“Scaredy cat, hm?,” he teases, smirking as he turns, walking back out of the room, his index finger hooked around your cuffs, yanking you along. Fumbling behind him, the suited man following to make sure you don’t run. He leads you back to your prison. Once you’re inside, Joker closes the door. You can see the guard’s shadow beneath it.

Waiting for your eye to adjust, the hair on the back of your neck stands up. He’s in here - somewhere. But you can’t see him and he’s watching. 

Always watching.

You can hear breathing close, but not too close. Your one good eye searches in the darkness. Soft sounds meet your ears, like cloth rustling, and then you can see him. He’s in the corner you were in when he first came into the room.

He steps toward you, taking your hands in his, extending them so that you’re touching his shirt. The skin of his fingers is hot as he maneuvers your fingers onto the buttons, forcing you to unbutton one. Your face heats red at the implied contact and a shuddered breath leaves your mouth. His breathing is almost silent.

“Goood girl. Keep going,” he whispers, staring at you - too close - as your hands fumble to undo the rest of his buttons. There’s only a few since he wears his shirts half undone to begin with. The situation is embarrassing, intimate. Your face is burning with heat now. If he notices, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

His touch is slow, gentle, planned. Moving your hands, he presses your palms to his warm abdomen. The skin beneath your hand is smooth and warm, soft and pliable. Your face heats more and you force yourself _not_ to turn your head away at the contact. Leaning his head down and to the side, he gives himself access to your neck. You tense, teeth starting to chatter.

“Take it off,” he whispers against your skin, lips not touching you but making you _feel_  like you _want_  them to be. Unsure of what he’s referring to, you hesitate. Patiently, he places your hand on the sleeve of his shirt. You grasp the sleeve cuff and shimmy it: grab, pull, grab, pull. Getting one sleeve off, you move around to the back of him, carefully sliding the shirt along his shoulders to remove it and then down his well-defined arms. He leaves you standing there awkwardly holding his shirt that still feels warm from his body heat.

“ _Good _,__  Kitten,” he teases, “you can follow directions.” He gathers you against him, sinking to the floor, pulling you with him and into his lap. Moving your legs so your you straddle him, your hands are limp between your bodies, the shirt still clutched in between them. He slips the fabric from you and tosses it onto the folding chair. You’re not sure where to put your hands now, tucking them against your stomach, squeezing them there so hard your elbows ache uncomfortably. 

He tuts against the movement, “uh, uh, uhhh,” forcing you to leave your hands limp between your bodies. Your face warms at their proximity to his lap. A metallic _ting_  has you tensing as your eyes find the straight razor.

Easily, he wraps his free hand around the base of your neck, slowly pulling you toward him. You want to turn away, but you don’t, fear keeping you still. He likes it when you stare back. You need to make him happy, do as he says, keep him from using the razor.

“Now. Kitten,” he says huskily, quietly, the words rumbling through the air like thunder, “I have. Questions.”

Nodding, he squeezes your neck a little harder and you voice your answer, “Okay.”

“Fast learner, too. Mmm,” he hums, tongue slipping from his mouth to swipe across your bottom lip, “you’re gonna be funnnnn.” Gasping at the unexpected contact, he takes full advantage of your open mouth, forcing his tongue inside, lips pressing up against your own. A startled sound escapes you - being swallowed by the fierceness of his kiss.

Like a predator, he surges forward, his heavy body pressing you hard onto the cold floor of the room as his mouth devours you slowly, distracting you from his movement. He holds your legs around his hips when you arch your head forward into the kiss to allow your back the brunt of the fall backward, trying to protect your head. Slowly, he brings the heat of the kiss down, down. His panting is loud in the space around you. The humidity of his breaths warms your face, cooling your skin when he inhales.

He sits up on his elbows, leaving his hips trapping you beneath him. “Tell me what you heard in my office,” he whispers huskily, his hand gripping your hair as he leans your head all the way back onto the floor, staring hard into your eyes. You tremble, trying to get enough breath to speak.

He urges, “tell me, __t__ _ _e__ _ _ll me__ , tellmetellmetellme, ” fingers digging deep into your curly hair, massaging your scalp as he starts to wind his fingers tightly into your locks, his palm closer to your scalp now. It feels good, him touching your hair like that, but you don’t want to get comfortable.

“S-stupid things,” you answer eagerly, your voice shaking, “they m-make no sense.”

He hums in reply, leaning back to sit on the cold concrete. He slips his arms under you and rocks you into his chest. His teeth close on the shell of your ear, a whimper escaping you when he bites hard, one hand finding the opening in your blouse - hot fingers pressing into your stomach, moving along your side to grip your exposed hip, his fingertips slipping beneath the hem of your jeans.

A soft sound escapes you - somewhere between a cry and a gasp, his fingers gripping harder now. He slips your cuffed arms around his neck and says, “stay.” And just like that, he drags the edge of the razor against your collarbone, watching the blade move whisper-close. The Joker makes a show of licking his bottom lip, his mouth opening as he watches your skin part and a tiny bead of blood pool in the shallow cut. You hiss at the sting, forcing yourself to stay still.

“What else,?” he rumbles, tipping the blade so the side presses against your throat, his teeth nipping at your chin, free hand roaming the skin at your ribs, inching up toward the cup of your bra. Your body begins to shake as you cry, tears sliding down the side of your face. Roughly, he unhooks your arms from his neck and shoves you down on your back, straddling your body. Tears leak down to wet your ear, your hair, and the floor beneath you.

“Sometimes I say things that make people upset! I can’t remember what happens when I do that. He TRIED- “ you scream as he digs the razor in, leaving a long line of red on your chest, tracing the scratch to make it much deeper. Blood flows freely as you scream and writhe beneath him at the pain. 

“WHO?” he yells, spit forming bubbles in his open mouth against his teeth. He cuts a long line straight down, taking the time to curve it back up toward your clavicle. The pain is unbearable, you scream so loud it rings against the walls, blood running in little rivers down your body, filling your bellybutton and staining the floor beneath you. He traces the lines he’s made, your screams filling the small room, echoing down the hall. The shadow shifts under the door, shoes making a soft scuffing noise.

“My shrink! Dr. Murphy,” you whimper, making small wounded noises as he spins the tool thoughtfully, index finger sliding along the bottom outline of your bra as blood drips down his arm from the razor, painting his palm red. You cry pathetically, trying hard not to move, not to curl in on yourself away from him.

Once he’s carved his claim into your body, he sits you up and forces you to sit in his lap again. “There’s no question, Kitten, to whom you belong now.” He slips the razor closed, bloody staining the edge black. He clips it back to his pocket and roughly grabs the bottom of your face, turning your head so you stare into his crazed eyes.

“You will never say that name again,” he coaxes, his left hand pressing hard against the bruise near your eye. Delirious with pain, blood pools in the cup of your bra - soaking the front of the white fabric. His eyes drop to follow the mess he’s made of you, hissing at the sight, teeth pressed together. His body responds to the sight, stiffening beneath your lap and you retch just as you stands, falling off his lap and onto your side. Black spots threaten your vision before the whole room disappears, sleep coming at last.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Formatting fixed.


	6. The Root of Unraveling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING* This chapter is sexually explicit, contains non-con/rape/dubious consent and is NSFW! I'm not particularly comfortable writing explicit sex scenes, but here we go . . .

****Chapter 6: The Root of Unraveling** **

Your eyes open to the brilliance of the sun’s warm rays filtering in through parted slats of wooden blinds. A sheer curtain billows in the breeze of an open french door, catching your attention. The door is one of a set that leads out onto a balcony bathed in sunlight.

Sitting up, your palms touch the softness of silk sheets. A bedroom. His bedroom? A dark shade of purple covers the walls, “HA HA HA” scrawled all over in black lettering. Definitely his bedroom.

A walk-in closet lines one wall. A small glass desk with a closed laptop sits perched in the far corner of the room beside the second window. The room is neat, clean, but little items scattered about that tell you he uses this room: three cellphones lay charging along the edge of the glass desk top, a plush leather chair with his dress shirt draped carefully over the back of it. Two sets of keys lay on the desk, almost hiding a small cluster of scratches that turn the glass white. The scratching shows consistency, habit. He uses this room often.

A plain white door, most likely a bathroom is left ajar, a light is on inside. You can hear the hushed noise of a shower running, the loud sound of rushing water flooding to the floor now and then. Someone is definitely in there.

Biting at your lower lip, you stand and gasp at your naked body as a cool breeze from the open door has you shivering. Quickly, you yank at the black sheet to pull it over your body. Waiting the span of a breath, you can still hear the shower running.

Testing your feet on the plush carpet, you pull his burgundy dress shirt off the chair and quickly slip it on, buttoning the center buttons to cover most of your body from prying eyes. You drape the sheet back over the bed and stop to listen. The room is silent except for the curtain’s faint whisper against the windowsill as it blows fluidly. The scrape of a shower curtain being slid across the rod splits the quiet air.

Your body tenses and you head for the french door. Slowly, quietly, you slip outside. The cement is warm on your toes in the sunlight. It looks to be late morning or early afternoon judging by the sun’s position in the sky. You recognize the cliff side and inhale deeply. Your fingers curl around the ornate railing, gazing out at the rather lovely view of the cliff side. You’re back at Amusement Mile, the faint sounds of the carnival floating up and out toward the water.

A hand caresses your hip and you jump. “Lookin’ good in my clothes, Kitten,” he says quietly. Turning your head to meet his gaze, your eyes rake over his naked chest, a pair of black sweatpants strung low on his perfect hips. Feeling your face grow hot, you turn back toward the view of the river, smirking.

“Not used to someone not wanting you, huh?” you jab, cocking an eyebrow as you watch small waves crest against the sparse beach below. The smell of seaweed and fish ebbs up on a swift breeze, snapping your hair up and about the two of you.

“I’ll play, Kitten,” he concedes, voice low and dangerous. The Joker’s eyes follow the swirling of your locks before he steps directly behind you, sliding his fingers up into your hair by your ears. You still at his grasp on you and shiver when his warm chest presses up against your back. The warmth of his body is comforting, but you’ll never forget the broken mind that comes with it.

“We can pretend,” he breathes huskily, his lips grazing your neck as he tilts your head to the left, his right hand snaking down your body, brushing heavily over your right breast, thumb brushing the nipple as he reaches down to cup the juncture of your thighs.

Warmth floods your body at his touch and you fight the urge to lean back against him, his hips leaning forward to trap you between him and the balcony’s half-walled railing. His teeth nip at your neck, the other hand slipping out of your hair to flick the first button open, exposing the curve where your neck meets your shoulder.   

“You don’t get it,” you breathe evenly, angry that your body constantly betrays you at the very suggestion of his touch or attention.

He wants you, you remind yourself, not the other way around. Manipulation was easy for him - like breathing. And sex, that was a fun weapon to wield, now wasn’t it? He seemed to like using that the most with you - making you feel like you want him, like you need him, but you don’t. You don’t want this man, no matter how pretty the wrapper, the inside is rotten and sour.

His left hand flicks the buttons open until the shirt is completely undone. Slowly, his fingers grip the inner edges of the fabric to pull them open, dragging the material over every inch of skin to get it off. Your heart rate increases and he chuckles, leaving the shirt draped on your elbows, his open palms pressing inward, over your breasts. He kneads them, pinching your nipples until they peak. His hips push forward, his crotch twitching against your backside.

“I. Don’t. Want. You,” you bite out, reaching back to grab at his sides, raking your nails toward his abs. He groans into your ear, his erection growing against you.

“What. You. Want. Doesn’t. Matter,” he says through clenched teeth, forcing your hand you to rub against his erection, thrusting against it to create friction. Your face flushes, the redness spreading over your neck and chest at his actions and you force your brain to think through the desire clouding it. His left hand slips to the front of you, swiping the shirt to the side to slip between your legs.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants, “you’re so wet already,” spreading your wetness around to make it easier for himself.

A wild idea spins a web inside your mind - your consciousness fighting for a plan, for anything. If he’s going to force himself on you, then you’re going to manipulate the situation, use his need for sex against him.

Leverage is power and power is something he has far too much of. You can’t physically overpower him, but that doesn’t mean you have to play the victim and let him lead.

“Kiss me,” you demand, moaning against his mouth when he simultaneously bites your bottom lip and shoves two fingers into you. Sliding your right hand into his pants, you grip his dick, stroking it, skin-to-skin. He slips a third finger into you, groaning into your mouth, a pearl of precum leaking from his tip when you bite hard onto his tongue, drawing blood. He pulls his head back, spitting blood to the side. You yank the shirt all the way off, leaving your entire body bare to his eyes and turn so you can see him. Raising an eyebrow at the eye-candy, you smirk, watching him slide his pants down just enough to release his erection.

He shoves on your shoulders to get you on your knees, his lips parting, blood seeping out the corner of his mouth from his lacerated tongue. Grabbing him at the base, you lick your way to the tip, biting the very end. He groans, thrusting further into your mouth where it pushes against the wall of your teeth. You slowly open your mouth further, gagging when he forces himself in most of the way. He puts his hand over yours, forcing you to stroke him as he fucks your mouth, his eyes starting to glaze a bit, head tilting up, abs tensing as he struggles to stay standing.

You use his vulnerability to grip his balls and pull, biting down enough to get him worried. He growls and pulls your hair hard, immediately causing a headache. You moan in pain and he slaps you in the face with his dick before shoving you onto your back, holding tight to one of your wrists to keep it above your head. You use your free hand to slide it up the center of his body, wrapping your legs around his hips. He pulls you up easily into his lap, angling your hips over his so he sinks right into you.

“Ride me, baby,” he gasps, holding your wrists behind you as he thrusts up into you and you writhe in his lap.

“This doesn’t mean shit, asshole,” you sigh through gritted teeth. Shouting at a particularly hard thrust, you shove misplace your weight on purpose, leaning too far and off his dick, shoving his chest hard to force him onto his back.

“Shut up,” he says through clenched teeth, groaning loud when you swirl your pelvis and claw down his chest, leaving angry red trails of bunched skin and a few beads of blood. “Faster,” he pants, bouncing you up and down on him, letting go to squeeze your chest when you take over the rhythm. You lean forward and kiss him hard biting his bottom lip savagely, nails digging into his ass cheek, keeping the pace above him. He laughs behind your kiss, causing you to clench your teeth. He hisses in pain and lightly slaps your cheek in warning. You smile, tasting his blood and make a show of licking it off your lip, leaning back to angle better.

“Slow down,” he demands, gripping your hips to roll you off of him. He quickly arranges you onto your hands and knees and slams into you from behind. Your breasts bounce with the force of each thrust and he leans down, biting a line up your spine, his left hand squeezing a breast while his right starts to finger you. “Cum for Daddy,” he whispers in your ear, his fingers working just the right places, making you moan too loud, muscles tensing, pushing your hips back against him with each thrust. It starts to build fast, his pace responding to the little signs that you’re about to go over the edge. With a shout, your body tenses and then spasms, sinking down to your belly in your rapture, unable to hold yourself up.

He grunts, groaning with his head back. Your eyes widen and he pulls himself out of you. Your head lifts at the sudden absence and he yanks you toward him, forcing his dick into your mouth just as he cums. Some of it leaks out onto your chin, dripping onto the cement of the balcony. He watches with hooded eyes as you stroke him a few more times, tongue working the last of it out before you swallow.

A satisfied smirk lift his lips, different than his usual sneer and he slips an arm around your waist to haul you up while you wipe at your chin with a swipe of your arm.

“It’s time to clean you up, Darlin’. You’re scarin’ the neighbors,” he grins, slapping your ass hard as he corals you into the shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Formatting fixed.


	7. What’s Up, Doc?

**Chapter 7 : What’s Up, Doc?**

The Boss snaps his fingers and you pull a breath in through your nose to keep it quiet, moving to stand beside him. His fingers fan over your side before he pulls you down onto his lap, an air of confident detachment surrounding him like an expensive cologne.  
”Repeat it,” he says distractedly, a tone that sets the little hairs on the back of your neck on end. Whenever he pretends he _isn’t_  listening means the exact opposite.

“Get Murphy to see me immediately. I take the bus to his office. I call you, leave the line open so you can hear the conversation. I stall him, keep him busy with a false emergency until you arrive.”

“YES!” he shouts exuberantly, leaning forward to slam his fists on the table for emphasis. “You hear that, Donny? Kitten remembers after the first. Fucking. Run-through.” The man in the suit nods and subtly wipes the palms of his hands against his pants. You stand from the Joker’s lap, pausing to see if he’ll allow it.

He leans back to put his heels up on the table, a pair of lavender socks peeking through the gray pinstripe pants. The Italian black leather dress shoes are worn flat on the bottom, shined impeccably. His eggplant colored shirt is crisp, the sleeves folded neatly to his elbow. “GO!,” he shouts, eyes wide, teeth clenched as he points to the door.

The Suit, Donny, grabs your elbow and precedes to lead you toward a black SUV barked in the dirt lot of a warehouse just east of Amusement Mile along the coast. You slip your phone out of your pocket and take the olive drab purse Donny tosses toward you, slinging it across your body.

“Dr. Murphy. Answer the phone,” you gasp into his voicemail, expression neutralizing as soon as you hang up and redial.

Donny glances at you in the rear view mirror once you get in the car. He’s middle-aged, clean-cut, nondescript, perfectly ordinary. There’s nothing memorable about him and that’s just how the Boss seems to like the Suits from what little you’ve experience of his business so far. There’s only been a handful of them in or out that he’s had direct contact with. Donny has a black club tattoo to signify that he’s an Enforcer.

Touching your diamond tattoo absentmindedly, you sit up straight when you hear someone answer on the third try, _“Office of Dr. Murphy, how can I help you?”_

You choke on a fake sob and sniffle loudly, pretending to fight with the phone before you whisper, “Dr. Murphy. I’m . . . I’m in some real trouble. I’m on my way over. Please help - ” You hang up and ignore the call when he tries to get back in touch with you, smiling.

“Hrmph,” Donny huffs, pulling a set of sunglasses off the visor to slip them on. “Nice act.”

“Thanks,” you say quietly, your tone lilting in appreciation. Sifting through your purse to see if everything’s still in it, you notice the pill bottle is missing. Training your expression to remain neutral, you pull your pocket knife out, smiling widely. Clipping it to the front of your pants, you sift inside for your wallet, finding everything else in it’s place.

Donny is motionless in the driver’s seat, a little too still to be focused on driving alone. You pretend not to notice his attention, trying not to roll your eyes at the obviousness. Maybe giving him a pointer would be helpful?

“I can tell you’re paying attention to me. You’re too still,” you say quietly, choosing to offer constructive criticism.

“Yeah?,” he says a bit snidely.

“Yeah,” you say evenly, leveling him with a stare in the rear view mirror. He slides the sunglasses up and opens his mouth, but then thinks better of it and shakes his head, sliding them back down over his eyes. The rest of the ride is silent and he stops at the same intersection this whole mess began at. You feel nervous and force yourself to get out of the car, checking the time on your phone. Donny pulls away and makes a U-Turn to head back to the warehouse. The bus won’t be coming for another fifteen minutes.

The bus comes sailing up to the Gotham City Fast Track sign and stops with a hydraulic hiss. You scan your bus pass and sit in the first seat, anxious to get this over with. The bus driver nods in your direction but stares at you for a few extra seconds. Having a shiner will do that - make people stare hard at you with pity or disgust.

The ride to the City Hall District is relatively short, twenty minutes with all the stops along the way. The few passengers that board the bus steer clear of you. The damaged side of your face is a better deterrent than the knife clipped to your pants, it would seem. A flash of the last time you used your knife threatens to derail your thoughts and your stupid “mission.” What the fuck did the Joker even _want_  with your shrink, anyway?

You stick one ear bud in your ears, your iPod stuffed deep into your purse to keep it secure. You play with the other one, wanting to be vigilant enough to hear what’s going on around you. Checking the time on your phone and your location, you stand and get ready to leave the bus.

The brick is worn, but inviting, with it’s bright plastic flowers mounted in two gigantic planters by the stoop steps. You test the front door, holding down the speed dial number you’ve set. The door is unlocked, which is strange. The office closed at six and yet here it is, almost seven and the door is unlocked to the street?

Cautiously, you push the door open and crane your head in to see past the foyer. The office is usually well-lit with an electric fireplace and several squishy lounge chairs to the left.

The secretary’s desk is to the right with a few hard plastic chairs in offset from the desk for overflow. The Doctor’s office is on the left and a small restroom just past the secretary’s desk. The walls are cream, neutral with abstract paintings maintaining the safe, quiet, environment.

The only source of light is coming from his office where the door sits ajar, the knob shining as you step slowly inside. Closing the door behind you, you call out, “Hello?” No answer. Yellow glows beneath the single bathroom, a toilet flushing inside. The bathroom door opens and the tall man startles, “Jesus! I was wondering if you were going to come,” he says, waving his hand for you to enter his office as if you’re arriving late to an appointment.

“The bus is slow,” you reply, eyeing him warily, “you know I take the bus.” You remain in the doorway, not sure if you want to follow him or not. Something feels weird, off. The Doctor is acting strangely jumpy. After realizing you’re not moving, Dr. Murphy motions for you to follow him to a chair in the foyer in front of the secretary’s desk. He sits closest to the bathroom. You leave a seat between you and turn to look at him. He takes mental note of your position - his eyes clinical as he stills, watching you closely. He doesn’t normally pay this much attention to your actions. He’s on edge. _Why?_

“This trouble that you’re in. Does it have something to do with . . .,” he motions to your face.

“My face? Yeah,” you say, forcing tears to leak through your eyes, inwardly thinking of the mess you’re about to unleash on this man. A flash of Trix’s surprised face makes you miss what he’s said to you. You look nervously at the floor, your fingers folding, unfolding, feeling like you’re wasting time; Have to keep him busy.

“Look, I can’t say much about it. Someone’s looking for me right now and I can’t stay long.”

“You’re out of pills, aren’t you?”

“You think I’m making this up for some fucking _pills_?,” you growl, standing quickly, anger setting your jaw and making your expression drop. The coolness of the knife comforts you.

Dr. Murphy’s expression remains neutral, but his eyes are cataloging everything you do. He seems tense in his posture, his shoulders stiff and back further than when he’s actually relaxed. Tension fills the space between you as your hackles start to raise. It feels like he’s already chosen a side, already sold you out. The question was, to _who_  and for _what?_ Your hand twitches and you stuff it into your pocket, leaving your left hand limp at your side. He watches the movement, sitting up taller in the hard plastic chair.

“Who’d you talk to, Doc?” you ask evenly as you stand, backing toward the door. You reach behind you to lock it from the inside.  

“No one, yet,” he replies coolly, moving to stand. __Yet?__  You tisk him with an index finger, a warning in your expression as you point back down to his vacated chair.

“Nah, Doc. Sit. _Relax_ ,” you command, making your voice honey smooth. “I just need you to tell me who you called before I got here.” He stares right into your face as he lies, his eyes trying hard to be convincing.

“No one.”

Your demeanor changes, becomes harder, tougher, the person you have to be to live in Gotham’s downtown Section 8 housing and _survive_. The person that shanks a bitch that tries to mug you. Someone who survives an encounter with the Joker twice.

“You’re a bad liar, Doc. Interesting that you can stare at me while you do it. Says something it shouldn’t about you, being a shrink and all.” Agitated, you step close to him now, getting in his personal space.

He changes then, raising his palms up as if in surrender, “Look, I don’t have a way to get you a refill until tomorrow morning.”

“Stop fucking with me. I didn’t come here for any fucking pills and you know that. You’re stalling,” you say, grabbing his arm roughly and yanking him hard out of the chair. He cries out in shock and you shove him hard toward his office door, clutching your knife, extending the blade.

“I’m done playing nice.” Shouldering your way into the office, you shove the man onto his sofa. Grabbing his keys from his desk.

“Sit **down** ,” you bark when stands and tries to come closer. He sits and his eyes are strained - worry lines creasing his forehead. Crows feet make him look older than he seems.

You search his desk until you find a revolver. Removing it, you check the chamber for a live round and pull the hammer back before pointing it at him. He swallows hard and holds his hands up. “You don’t have to do this. You can leave and no one has to know!,” he says, a little hysterical now.

Keeping the gun pointed at him, you flip your knife closed and re-clip it to your waistband. You pick his cellphone up from the desk and ask for his passcode. Entering it with one hand, you search his recent calls and curse, shaking your head in anger. “You called the cops. You shouldn’t have done that, Doc. Shouldn’t have lied about it, too,” you say, pulling open the second desk drawer.

Upon further rifling through his drawer you find a remote and then follow the red light to a webcam mounted in plain sight if you’re looking for it. Following the lens, you see that it’s pointed directly at the patient sofa. You cluck your tongue and feel anger start to simmer beneath your skin - your blood pressure rising. Moving the remote, you take a pair of handcuffs with the key stuck in them out of the desk and hold them up.

“Now, Doc, what could you possibly need these for? Hm?,” you question, advancing on him, handcuffs in one hand, his gun in the other. You aim at him with his own weapon and he squirms on the couch.

“You shouldn’t be going through my things,” he says weakly, unable to answer.

“I’m no shrink, but that doesn’t seem like a smart answer to give someone holding a gun to your head, does it? Stand up. Hands behind you,” you order, cuffing him tight when he follows suit.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?,” he shouts. With the key safely in your pocket, you remove his tie and stuff it into his mouth to gag him.

“I’ve been a bad girl, Doc,” you smile, letting your eyes empty. “I’ll do anything to survive this shit hole city. _You_ , of all people, should know that. ”

Spotting his messenger bag on his chair, you unplug the laptop from his desk and slip it inside with the charger. Feeling time slipping through your fingers, you add his phone to the bag, slip his keys in your pocket and quickly open the filing cabinets behind his desk. You find your name and scowl when you see _three_  full file folders. Pulling them out, you stuff them in the bag also. You’re running out of time - someone could be here at any minute. Where the FUCK was the Joker? You slip your phone partially out of your pocket and see the timer counting still on the live call.

Slinging his messenger bag over your chest, you turn the desk light off and leave him in the dark of his own office. Using the key ring, you lock the door and head straight for the bathroom where there’s a fire escape just out the relatively tall window. Standing on the toilet should allow you to reach it, though.

Locking the bathroom door, you pull the blinds up and unlock the old wooden window. Getting it open takes some doing as the layers of paint have gotten it stuck to the windowsill. With a huff and a several tugs, it lifts enough for you to get some leverage. Standing on the toilet, you shove with all your might and the window pushes, so fucking slowly open you feel like you’re about to be busted any second.

Heavy knocking can be heard on the front door out on the street.

A female voice calls, “Dr. Murphy? Gotham P.D. Open up!”

Another knock on the door and a man’s voice joins the woman’s. Murphy starts to make noises from the inner office and you curse, still standing on the toilet. You stick one arm out the tall window and pull with your arms to get your ass on the windowsill. Wiggling out, you land semi-quietly onto the fire escape and waste no time vaulting down the stairs.

Finally getting down to the first floor, you hear the cops shout and the Doctor’s voice trying to shout to them behind a mouthful of cheap tie. Voices are yelling from above, but you’re focused on the keys in your hand, madly hitting the unlock button as you run full-tilt to the parking lot. A tiny Porsche sports car’s headlights flash each time you hit the button. You run straight to the car, palms slamming against it to slow you down, yanking the door open hard. The hinge protests before you slam the door closed and lock the doors.

Jamming the key in the ignition, you thank the powers that be that it’s automatic. Throwing the car in reverse, you throw the car into Drive and narrowly miss an oncoming car as you jet out of the closed building’s parking lot onto Verne Avenue. Uptown seems to be the best way to go.

Why didn’t the Joker come? Did he tell the Doctor you were coming and tip him off to call the cops? Questions pummeled your head until it hurt and you cursed aloud, slamming your fist on the steering while, yanking your phone from your pocket. It had to be some kind of fucking __test.__ The line is still open. You hit the red phone icon to disconnect and toss the offending piece of shit on the seat beside you.

Slowing down to blend in with traffic, you curse as you pass a cop car and smack your head back against the headrest. They’ll be looking for this car now, the fucker’s going to report it stolen. Can’t change the plates, either, they’ll still be looking for the make and model. Best to get the fuck out of Midtown. Uptown was the best place to to ditch the car, the cops rarely went to The Joker’s territory these days.

Where the fuck **was**  the Boss?

Maybe going near the Asylum was a bad idea. . .that left the Sprang bridge. All the leg work would have to be done in the worst part of the city after you ditched Murphy’s car, but at least you had a gun in addition to your knife. Going to your apartment at all, ever, seemed like the worst idea. The cops were sure to have a long list of shit to pin on you now. They could get you for Trix’s murder, Cole’s assault, grand theft auto, the list was getting longer each day, now.

A loud sound startles you out of your mental debate and you turn to the passenger seat where your phone is ringing. You lift it up to peer at the incoming caller ID between looking up to drive. It’s the Boss’ number. You quickly swipe to the right to answer, pressing the speaker icon while you set it in your lap to focus on driving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Formatting fixed.


	8. Flies With Honey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The following symbol indicates the passage of time: ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦.  2) Minor edits made to all applicable chapters, changing the name of the Joker's car from Lamborghini/Lambo to Vaydor for accuracy.

****Chapter 8: Flies With Honey** **

“After your meeting, stay put,” is all he says before he hangs up on you. _Asshole!_ Scowling, you press your foot further down on the stolen Porsche’s accelerator and jet toward the center of Midtown.

Arriving an hour early, you strategically park in the maintenance lot near the rear of the park. Slinging the messenger bag over your shoulder, you take the set of keys with you, locking the Porsche’s doors out of habit before moving to the back of the maintenance building.

A partitioned wall marks the men and women’s restrooms. Seizing the opportunity to decompress in solitude, you slip into the last stall and lock the door. Hanging the messenger bag on the hook inside, you rifle through your purse and remove a small black flash drive with an encrypted zip file containing the bulk of the information you’ve got on Falcone. Having worked for Falcone Warehousing and Storage for eleven years, you had quite a bit of information: shipping manifests, item codes with photos, a list of buyers and sellers, and an interesting photo copy of some off-the-books transactions. That comfortable fuck, Falcone, was about to have his cushy world blown right open.

You startle when your phone rings, loud in the quiet bathroom. Fishing it out of your pocket, you glimpse at the screen before answering.

_“Hey, Ruthless. We still on for tonight?”_

“Yes.”

 _“Any chance you can meet earlier than 10? I got a last minute flight I need to make tonight. _”__ Suspicion has you biting your bottom lip and reaching into your purse for the revolver. Now what a fucking coincidence, huh? Naaah.

“For you? Sure,” you say reluctantly, “how about now?”

_“You’re a lifesaver Ruthless. See you in ten!”_

After he hangs up, you text the boss, feeling like you want to say _something_  in case you get murdered tonight - by someone else. You laugh a little hysterically at that thought and sink down onto the toilet to think, hands starting to shake a little in your anxiety.

_KITTEN: Hey, Boss. Change of plans, meeting in 10 mins._

Turning your phone ring setting to vibrate, you leave the messenger bag and your purse in the stall and leave the door locked, carefully crawling out underneath.

You take the opportunity to study your appearance in the mirror near the sink. Your left eye is ringed with greenish yellow skin - the bruise almost healed by now. Your unruly hair lays in long ringlets near your face and curly waves toward the back. You gently tame it a bit with your fingers and sigh. It still looks like shit, but far better than it had. Using a tiny bit of water, you subdue the sides to look more presentable. Pulling your shirt hem down further and the waistband of your pants up, you tighten the drawstring on the Boss’ borrowed pants. Zipping the oversized black coat up, you test out holding the revolver up inside the sleeve. It’s almost noticeable, but not there’s not much you can do about it. Sweatpants aren’t going to help hold a gun up against your body. Placing the pistol quietly onto the sink, you clip your knife to the inside of your pants pocket. Even if you lose the gun, you’ll have your knife.

Checking to make sure you’ve got everything: knife, gun, flash drive, phone, you straighten your back, relax your shoulders, hold your head high with attitude and purpose and confidently walk out of the bathroom toward the center of Robinson Park. For reassurance purposes, you hold down the Boss’ speed dial number again and leave the line open, stashed away in your pocket.

 ****♦** ** **** ****♦** ** **** ****♦** ** **** ****♦** ** **** ****♦** **

“So,” the smartly dressed gentleman says, his face surprisingly young when he stops a few feet away in front of you. “You must be Ruthless.” His city accent is on par with what you’ve heard over the phone, so this is the guy.

The man eyes you warily, the corner of his left eye scrunching a bit when he sees your healing shiner. He’s a handsome guy, dirty blond hair clean-cut, typical business length with neatly trimmed nails and a clean shaven face. His appearance says he’s probably a paper pusher somewhere. His nails are clean and neatly kept. How cute. His jaw is strong, his features somewhat hard yet intriguing. His eyes are green and vibrant, a color you find yourself appreciating.

“You get into a fight with a car door, or somethin’?”

“Or somethin’,” you smirk, “You are?”

“Colt.”

“Right. Everything you’re looking for is right here,” you say, getting straight to the point, holding up the small thumb drive. He laughs, a warm sound that fills the space around you and echoes into the empty, open space.

“Listen, kid. I get that you’re new to this kind of shit. It’s obvious. But I need some kind of assurance of what’s on that flash drive before I discuss price.”

Nodding, you slip your phone out of your pocket and hit “send” on a text you had waiting, carefully keeping the screen hidden from him so he can’t see your live call to the Boss. The text includes a series of photos, copies of what you’ve already zipped on the thumb drive. It gives dates and item codes with photos of the items, illegal arms in this case. But this text doesn’t mean anything is actually on the drive. How does this guy not know?

Smiling, he looks at you anew - this time with appreciation. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about, honey.”

“It’s Ruthless,”you correct him, eyeing him warily, reminded of his calling you ‘girlie’ on the phone, moving to sit on the bench beneath a dim street lamp.

“Okay, Ruthless. That’s some good shit. How much?”

You scoff at his question and slip the thumb drive into your pocket. He watches it disappear and sits beside you, leaving a few feet of space. You keep an eye on his hands in your peripheral vision while he adjusts his long coat. The soft sounds of Gotham late-night traffic is comforting.

“Let me be frank, _Colt_. I’m not stupid, you don’t _look_  stupid,” you lean closer with just your face, “you offer. I accept, reject, or counter.”

He nods as if in thought, but his jaw tenses, shoulders taught. He doesn’t like being spoken to like that, huh? Well, too fucking bad!

“Alright. Three grand.”

“No.”

“Three and a half.”

“You’re wasting my fucking time,” you say, standing, your right hand sweating beneath the grip of the revolver. Colt stands in a hurry and grabs your arm firmly, holding you in place.

“I’m not finished.”

“Give me a real fucking number,” you say heatedly, yanking your arm out of his grasp. His gloved fingers drop to his side and he scowls, using his index finger to swipe beneath his nose - a nervous gesture that has the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. A nervous gesture - a tell - is _never_  a good sign. An alarm goes off in your head and you force yourself to focus.

“Ten grand. Max offer, take it or leave it.” You laugh and step back, right hand at the ready in case he tries to grab at you again or something worse.

“No,” you say, gasping when a gunshot rings out and Colt drops to his knees, holding his shoulder. His pistol clatters to the ground and you slam the butt of your revolver into his head to knock him out. You duck low to the ground, snatching the downed pistol and stashing it in the pocket of your coat, on alert.

“HA, HA, HA!,” the sound has you straightening up in an instant, a grin hijacking your mouth as you suppress the urge to run toward him. The happiness you feel is confusing and you’re not really sure how to greet him.

He swaggers, his gait exaggerated as he makes his way toward you and his target.

“Here, Kitty, Kitty,” he teases, his mouth a flash of metal and white teeth as he spreads his arms wide. You notice you’re still smiling like a moron and school your face to neutral, removing the pistol from your pocket. You spin it in your palm and offer it to the Joker. He slips it in the back waistband of your pants, squeezing your ass before he motions to Colt.

“Oh, DONNY BOY!,” he calls eagerly, sliding an arm around your waist to start leading you toward his Vaydor parked rather obviously at the very entrance of the Park. “Bring our new friend to the _the guest room_.” The Suit jogs over, lifting Colt with a grunt before he flops the man onto the bench and pats him down. Tossing Colt’s wallet, watch, cellphone, and keys to the Boss, he hauls him over his shoulder and lugs him toward the black SUV parked behind the Joker’s Vaydor.

“Wait for me? I gotta grab my stuff,” you say, pausing in your walk. The Boss purses his lips and grips the front of his jacket you’re wearing, pulling you so close your noses touch. “Don’t. Keep. Me. Waiting.” A surge of hope floods your chest at his conditional acceptance.

Grinning, you nip at his nose playfully and he cackles as you sprint back to the ladies room, scurrying under the last stall to grab your purse and the Doctor’s messenger bag. With purpose, you sprint back to the Vaydor and gasp for breath, tapping on the window before you realize the Boss is in the _passenger_  seat. He rolls the window down and points to at you, “I’m not driving Miss Crazy.”

Clicking your seat belt on, you sigh and chew at your bottom lip. “Fuck my LIFE, this thing is a beast,” you mutter, turning the car on and shuddering at the growl of the engine.

“Oh, it’s not the only one, _Kitten _,”__ he grins, his fingers gripping your thigh. He puts his window down and sticks his head out, his hair flying all over the place as he opens his mouth wide, a maniacal laugh sounding as the Vaydor screeches out of Robinson Park, toward the coastline of the Gotham River in Uptown Gotham City.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Formatting fixed.


	9. Bitch, You Know My Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following symbol indicates the passage of time: ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦.*

(Chapter name from [Le Castle Vania song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SV1P1SSo0T0&list=PLMT6nBbpIDPvfotNtu7aZnjelHyUwV3IX) of a similar title.)

 

****Chapter 9: Bitch, You Know My Name** **

One-way mirrors are deceiving. They make you feel like some kind of perverted voyeur, paranoid that the other party can see you as clearly as you can see them. 

Suit stands by the door, watching the Boss work his charm beyond the barrier. His brown hair is combed to the side and back today - giving him a more casual air.

The feeling is all wrong with this, it feels like some kind of betrayal to watch him work. It’s an itch beneath your skin, a pressure in your mind as you stand motionless, too tense to sit in the plush reclining chair facing the window. The entire wall is presented as if it’s a movie theater, with thick red velvet curtains on either side and tiny reset lighting trailing to the chair. It makes you uncomfortable, the sense of leisure for such a dark task.

Anxiety swims in your gut as you force your body back into the chair and pull your eyes up to the wall of glass.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Dr. Alex Murphy sits on a metal folding chair. Only three of the chair’s legs touch the ground. His hands are handcuffed behind his back - the chair backrest keeping his arms far enough apart to cause constant discomfort. Just under Murphy’s chair, a drain pitches the floor down around it. _A shudder climbs your back at the sight of it._

The Boss sports a red sequin dress that hugs his narrow waist and hips. His wide shoulders make the straps look laughably thin. The v-cut neckline sags a bit against his flat chest, his tattoos partially visible. His lips are glittering rubies, the gleam in his eye giving away his excitement. A long slit up the leg of the dress gives the Boss ease of movement, showing off his thin, pale legs

Prowling around the Doctor’s chair, he assesses the captive man’s reaction. The Doctor’s knees tremble, his face turned away from the Boss as if he can’t stand the sight before him. The Joker lifts his leg high to sit square on the Doctor’s lap, giving everyone watching a flash of his body beneath. _Your face burns with embarrassment and Donny coughs behind you. Shifting to turn his face away, the stoic man pretends to watch the door. You chuckle, glad that The Boss’ exposure didn’t make just you and Murphy uncomfortable._

The Doctor makes a disgusted sound and tries to struggle against the cuffs. His knees wobble weakly with the Boss’ weight holding them down.

“Doc-tor. How _good_  of you to accept my . . . invitation,” the Joker grins, patting the Doc’s face gently. “I like to start with a few teeth breakers, myself,” he says conversationally. The Boss' fist easily meets the Doc’s face.

“UNGH,” Murphy cries out at the impact, his head snapping to the side and his glasses to the floor. Blood streams from his nose, running over his lips and down his chin.

“Lets,” the Joker claps in front of Murphy's face, “get to _know_  each other.” He slips off the Doctor’s lap. Blood oozes down from Murphy’s nose. The Doctor breaths out from his mouth, moaning each time blood bubbles from his nose instead.

“What do you WANT?,” Murphy says desperately, struggling against his cuffs once more. Blood speckles the front of his shirt, droplets spreading as they soak into the material.

The Joker walks up to the mirror. _On the other side, you tense, unknowingly leaning forward at the close proximity to the Boss._ The Joker pretends to check his makeup, opening his mouth wide to swipe a finger along the inner edge of his lips, his expression pert and exaggeratedly feminine. _You giggle, slapping a hand over your mouth. “They can’t hear you,” Donny offers, now standing sideways, leaning a hip against the wall, having guessed it's safe to look again._

_“Sure, but he know we’re in here,” you counter, eyes raking over the Boss’ figure standing so close._

The Joker flamboyantly sashays toward the open door, reaching a hand out into the hallway to pull in a small rolling cart with a tray on the top. _You gasp when it gets closer and stand from the chair, turning to face Donny, eyes wide. “No! No, no-no,” you say, moving to leave the room. Donny blocks the only door in or out and shakes his head._

_“You don’t have to watch. But the Boss said you can’t leave,” he says, dropping his arms to his sides in case you decide to try. You cross your arms over your chest and stare at him, grimacing, your stomach starting to churn._

“W-what the hell is that?!” Murphy cries. _Cursing, you turn your head slowly to peek at the Boss on the other side of the mirror._  He holds a pink sex toy sleekly shaped like a determined-looking rabbit with a phallic head.

“OH, no! NO! You ask me a question, I’ll answer,” Murphy pleads when the Boss ignores his prior question and starts to pull a lavender glove onto his right hand.

“Tell me. About. The visions,” Joker says, flicking his straight razor open with his left hand, carrying the pink sex toy in his right as he moves closer to the Doctor.

“Who’s visions? I have dozens of clients,” Murphy says hurriedly, rattling off last names. The Joker scowls and slaps the man across the face with the pink dildo; Blood from his nose smears the pink rubbery object. Alex Murphy starts to sob in distress. The Boss walks toward the mirror and stands in front of it: holding the pink rabbit in his gloved hand and his razor in the other. He carefully places his razor between his teeth and snaps his fingers, the sound loud and expectant.

_Your eyes dart to Donny, watching as he swings the door open for you to leave._

Glad to no longer be a voyeur to the show, but anxious about becoming a part of it, you walk into the interrogation room and up to the Boss, stopping directly beside him to stare into the mirror, meeting his eyes through the reflective surface. He smiles wide, removing his razor from his teeth, handing it to you with a flourish.

You lift the razor from his offering hand, your fingernails brushing against his warm palm. His fingers close, enveloping yours until you feel the pressure of the open blade against your skin. His large palm makes your hand look like a child’s.

You drag your eyes, slowly, up the sequined front of his chest; Past the dark edges of the jester hat tattoo, the expanse of porcelain skin, the laughter lettered on his chest, to the ruby red lips, glittering in the light. Your eyes trail up his nose, to the blue irises that lay you bare with one look.

A smile curves your lips despite the pain as your palm begins to bleed between your fingers, his hand forcing you to squeeze the blade. He leans toward you, raising your bloody palm to his lips. Watching with undivided attention, your pupils dilate when the Boss nips at your fingertips before he licks real slow up the length of the fresh cut. Eyelids fluttering to remain open as you fight to remain in control of your response, arousal floods you with warmth. He steps forward, tripping you back into the mirror, breath warming your ear as his voice fills your head.

“Wanna’ _play_ , Kitten?” He drags his palms down the mirror, a high-pitched squeaking noise filling the air as his skin rubs against the surface. You slide your bloody palm up his arm, follow his neck and dig your fingers into his hair, yanking his head toward yours, pulling his green locks hard. His pupils dilate, his eyes hooding low, almost closed as a growl vibrates his chest, rumbling against you.

“Only with you, Boss,” you whisper, expecting the slap when it comes. It stings, but it’s nothing compared the to the shiner he’s given you before.

“Little _Minx_ ,” he grins, turning away from you abruptly to face the Doctor, raising the pink toy as if just remembering he has it. His eyes grow dark and dangerous as he laughs, “HA, HA, HA.” The Joker steps menacingly toward the good Doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Formatting fixed. Added link to the song that the Chapter is titled after.


	10. The Predator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING* Torture, sexual content. NSFW.

****Chapter 10: The Predator** **

“The visions,” Murphy says, blood drying in smears over his chin and lips. “Visual and auditory, typical for the diagnosis. With medication the hallucinations are minor, harmless.”

“And the meds, Doc-tor?,” Joker prods, slowly pushing the rabbit toy against Murphy’s jaw.

“Without them the hallucinations become more frequent. The patient can become violent, in rare cases the digression leads to patient suicide. Medication is essential -”

“Got it-got it-got it,” the Boss says forcefully, palms up in surrender. He squats beside Murphy before getting to his knees, the dress pooling beneath him. “But. . .?”

“But, what,” Murphy says, the Boss patronizing by tapping his chin with the sex toy.

“Kitten _ _,”__ Joker purrs, your eyes darting straight to him, hands gripping the backrest of the chair.

“Boss?,” you ask, bracing your feet to pull the Doctor’s chair off balance. He tips back with a loud, **BAN **G**** , and cry of surprise and then pain as he lands on his back, crushing his handcuffed arms in the process.

“FUCK! My ARM! You people are crazy,” Murphy cries, his voice becoming high with hysteria. “I answered your question, I don’t know what else you want me to tell you, I can’t read your fucking mind!”

“HA HA HAAAA,” Joker cackles, snapping the purple glove at the wrist before he straddles the man in the chair, sitting on Alex’s chest. “ **I** wanna know how _she_  knows,” the Boss stage whispers.

A loud whistle sounds, bouncing around the room, leaving a strange kind of silence in its wake. It takes a second for you to realize it’s from the Boss. His cerulean eyes watch you closely from his squatting position on the Doctor.

Expensive Italian dress shoes clack on the tile floor as Donny jogs into the interrogation room, eyes on the green-haired gangster in the corner. The Boss doesn’t say anything, just makes a backward gesture with his thumb and a cluck of his tongue.

The Suit grabs your elbow, pulling you from the room. You lean toward the Boss before you pass him, holding the razor out in your open palm. His blue iris’ slide to you but his head remains facing Murphy. With an impatient smirk, he swipes the weapon from your palm before licking up the center of it, causing you to gasp in surprise.  
Donny pulls you faster and closes the door quietly behind you as if the sound might attract the Boss’ attention. Your pace quickens as an ear-splitting scream echoes down the empty hall followed by the Boss’ angry yelling. So that’s what the Suit was avoiding.

The Suit stuffs you back in the doorway of the voyeur room. Your stomach twists at the sounds - louder in here than in the hall. You sink back into the recliner - having given in to the eventuality of watching this.

The Boss wiggles his fingertips at the tray, eyes wide and gleaming as he stares down at the Doctor. The pink rabbit protrudes from Murphy’s damaged mouth, several of his _teeth_  strewn about the floor. The typically stoic man cries and sobs around the pink sex toy. He gurgles now and then as bloody drool foams down his cheek and onto the concrete floor beneath him.

The Joker slips the top of the dress down so it hangs at his waist. His clavicle is splattered with blood, the gloved hand smeared. He lifts an absurdly large flesh-colored dido from the tray and uses the razor to make quick work of the Doctor’s dress pants. The man goes ape shit beneath him, struggling enough to dislodge the pink toy. It rolls away from the struggle, glistening with spit. _It’s like watching a tragedy; You don’t want to see it, but you can’t look away._

“NO! No, please, **please**. I’ll tell you ANYTHING,” he says rather hysterically. The Joker lifts the large jar of petroleum jelly from the tray, making a show of swirling the new dildo around in it creating an obscene squelching sound. The Doctor stops his muttering to start sobbing, his lips vibrating strangely as he tries to squeeze his mouth closed. His stomach heaves several times before he pukes. The Boss shoves Murphy onto his side using the toe of his shoe. _The more you watch, the more your brain absorbs the horrible shit you’re experiencing. It feels like something pure is breaking, something you can never get back._

The Doctor’s pants are discarded, his mustard colored boxer briefs striking you as odd. _“Who the fuck wears mustard underwear?” you laugh out loud, the entire situation hitting you at once. If you don’t laugh, you’re going to lose the contents of your stomach on the floor, much like poor Doctor Murphy._

_Donny laughs aloud, the sound dying down to soft chuckling. You lift your knees up against your chest, back flat against the recliner. Waves of dizziness make you lean back and close your eyes, arms clasping at the palms as you hug your knees. This is real, this is really happening._

Slipping a second glove on, the Joker snaps it against his wrist loudly, grinning. His ruby lipstick catches the light, gleaming for a second before he slips out of the dress altogether.

_Your body stills at the sight of him naked: the chiseled torso, tight abdomen and corded muscle winding down to his pelvis. The sight brings you back to the floor of his bedroom and you clench your jaw, your body responding to the memory paired with the sight of him._

Wielding the flesh-colored toy as a weapon, the Boss pulls Murphy back up with both hands, the toy digging into the skin of his cheek in the process. The Doctor gags and the Joker scowls, tossing the toy into the other man’s lap. Walking casually - fully nude - to a water spigot you hadn’t noticed before, the Boss turns a knob and you watch, cringing, while he aims a high-powered hose at the Doctor.

Cold water sprays his face, making him cry out in shock as it soaks through his underwear and button-down shirt in seconds, also rinsing away the blood and puke. Once the majority of the mess is rinsed down the drain, Joker tosses the hose aside, a fountain of water rushing to the drain. _ _T_ hat bothers the control-freak in you, but you stay still and silent in the recliner, watching. It’s the kind of torture that fucks with you forever - the kind of things you can never un-see. The Boss’ naked body, his purple glove fisting a fake dick, your Psychologist handcuffed to a chair in mustard-colored underwear. You just can’t make this shit up. Come to think of it, non of your hallucinations were this fucked up either . . ._

“Now that we’ve . . . _bonded_ , Doc-tor . . . it’s time for answers.”

“Nngh,” Murphy gurgles, his head sagging forward. His unremarkable brown hair is sopping wet and dripping over his shoulders. His glasses have been pushed into the wall by the mirror.

_“Can he even **see**  without his glasses on?”_

“Does he need to?,” Donny retorts. Certainly not, but if the poor bastard can’t see that adds an _ _other layer to the fucked up mess you’re witness to. There’s something to be said about a second’s notice. The visual prepares you for the inevitable and if he can’t even see what the Boss is doing . . ._ _

“C-can you elaborate?” Alex stutters.

“She knows things she **couldn’t** know, Doc. How. Is. That?,” the Boss asks, retrieving the dildo from the soaked man’s lap. He’s careful not to touch the Doctor’s body.

“The . . . the prophetic visions? Yes,” Murphy chatters, his head lolling to the side as if he’s delirious.

“ **TELL. MEEE**!,” the sound explodes from the Boss’ mouth - his silver grill gleaming as he snarls in the Doctor’s face. His expression makes you shudder - a promise of menace and pain.

“I ran tests,” Alex Murphy says quickly, voice strained. “To see any memory of those visions persist. No recollection of those moments, they’re lost time.” The Boss growls loudly until it turns into a scream - swiping the entire tray away from him as he stalks around the beaten man.

 _ _“__ How. Does. She. **Know** ,” he growls, spit bubbling up around his lower teeth as he straddles the Doctor’s lap in a squat without actually meeting their bodies. The muscle in his legs tense, showing off his athletic figure.

“I don’t fucking know! I can’t read their minds,” Alex begins, only to be cut off by the new dildo being shoved into his mouth. He chokes on it before trying to spit it out, anger leveling his gaze on the Joker. But the Boss isn’t laughing, grinning, or smiling now. He’s all business.

“Psychologists are in the business of knowing, _minds_ , no?,” The Joker asks, voice low and dangerous. He slaps Murphy’s cheek hard, snapping the man’s head to the side. “I’ll leave you think on it, Doc. Maybe a little . . nap . . will kickstart that memory.” He yanks the toy out of the Doctor’s mouth and punches him __hard__  in the face, knocking him out cold.

Scowling, the Joker throws the dildo back in the Murphy’s lap. A glob of petroleum jelly lobs onto the Doctor’s leg as it lands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Formatting fixed.


	11. Black Honey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING* Sexual content. NSFW!

(Chapter title inspired by the [Thrice song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6MatyLjqiWg) of the same name.)

 

****Chapter 11: Black Honey** **

A rhythmic tapping of “Shave and A Haircut,” has Donny pulling the door open to reveal the Boss. He’s a vision of nonchalance; Shirtless in a pair of Arkham sweatpants strung low on his defined hips. With a predatory look, he crooks his finger, beckoning; A small tuft of dark hair protrudes from his armpit. A secret smile plays on your lips at that very _human_  detail. You unfold your legs, standing smoothly, the chair rocking back and forth with the disturbance.

He snaps his fingers, impatient, and you raise an eyebrow, crossing the room in two strides. Blood flecks his skin, the purple glove still clinging to his hand. His left swipes his hair back.

“Secure our other guest, Donny Boy.” Slamming the door closed, The Boss grabs your shoulders hard, shoving you up against the wall. Your back **thumps**  against it, breath rushing out of your lungs. Schooling your expression to neutral, you can never tell if he wants to fight or fuck. Your eyes dart up to his, forcing your body to remain relaxed. Hoping all the fight is out of him from his session with Murphy, you stare a little defiantly.

“Enjoy the _show_?,” he asks, voice deep and low. His eyes meet yours, taking in the green and brown iris’. He slips his hands down your arms to your hands, thumbs pressing into your palms. Dragging your cut palm to his lips, he tongues the skin, causing it to ache.

“Yes.”

His tongue licks a long, flat line up your wrist to the inside of your elbow. It feels strange, awkward, but it’s also turning you on. A small sound sneaks through your mouth, his eyes darting to your lips. He leans his hips against yours, trapping you against the wall.

“Miss me, Kitten?” he grins, a gleam in his eye.

Mischief.

A dare.

Time to play.

His glittering lips part, teeth bared, almost clenched as if he’s in pain or struggling with something unseen. “Maybe,” you say, knowing it’s not the answer he wants. He raises an eyebrow, leaning in close, his bottom lip touching your chin. His breath warms your face. Your lips part on an exhale, a pause and then you breathe in the air he exhales.

“Are you sure about that?,” he breathes, his hand slipping into the waistband of your borrowed sweatpants. He sucks your full bottom lip into his mouth, biting it first gently, getting you invested in his advances. A moan escapes your throat without your say-so.

You feel bold, reaching out to marvel at the pronounced muscle of his hips, fingers running down the lines that lead to his pelvis; It’s as if he was made to be touched like this. His long fingers slide along the lower length of you, finding you wet already.

“Oh, ho-ho!, _ _”__ he grins against your mouth. “There’s no _maybe _,__  Kitten.”

“A body is easily aroused,” you counter, fingers splaying against his crotch in response to his teasing. It twitches beneath your hand, stiffening, his grin remaining.

“You’re _eager_ , Kitten. So, **eager** ,” he says, making the last word sound dirty. His teeth bite your lip savagely, breaking the skin in the center. You hiss behind the kiss, biting him back in return, your blood mingling. The taste of copper is bitter in your mouth, his tongue sweeping along your teeth. Two long fingers push into you, your head smacking the back of the wall as your back arches. He thrusts his hips beneath your hand to create friction. You rub, but he keeps thrusting, a purring growl filling the room as he writhes against you. 

Slipping your knife from the waistband of your pants with your off-hand, you flick it open and draw the blade _just_  into the skin of his side. A thin line of blood meets the blade, his eyes opening wide mid-kiss. Blood stains his teeth, a loud groan filtering from his mouth. Caught off-guard, his forehead falls onto your shoulder, his dick hard, hot, and solid beneath your hand.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, panting now, his eyes hooded with want. You take advantage of his heady state, slipping your knife into his free hand. With his focus on the knife and your hand, he groans into your mouth, tongue battling yours for dominance. He shoves four fingers in you at once, making you keen.

Lifting your right leg, you wrap it around his hip and hoist yourself up his body, using his shoulders for leverage. “Oh _baby_ ,” he sighs, hand wriggling out from your pants to support you up against the wall. Popping your body up, he readjusts both your legs around his hips, using the wall to support your back. Your stiff nipples push against the fabric of your bra. Arousal burns through you, making it hard to think.

The Joker doesn’t use the knife in his hand, instead, dropping it. You lean your hands back to push off against the wall, bumping your bodies a half step toward the recliner. He stumbles backward into it, a suspicious _CRACK_  sounding when you both land in a heap on top of the chair.

Wasting no time, you slide off his body to yank his pants off. Nipping like a playful puppy at the skin revealed, you suck where his hip meets his thigh, leaving a large bruise. He yanks your shirt off, sliding the bra straps down your arms. You reach back to unhook it, but he traps your wrists with one hand, forcing you up and on top of him. He kisses you hard, tongue stroking over yours, tracing your teeth before releasing you completely.

His chest heaves as he leans back on his elbows, lifting himself up enough to see you clearly. You sink to your knees at the foot of the chair, a coy smile playing at your shapely lips. He grins, licking his bottom lip seductively as you shove his knees apart to crawl closer, between them. His green hair is slipping to the side, no longer pushed back in the center. His lipstick is smeared and his tooth look filthy colored with your mingling blood.

Mouth pausing over his erection without touching, you drag your teeth along the top of his length, first. He groans, gloved hand sinking into your hair to pull at the strands. He’s gentle until you work him deep into your mouth, tongue pushing up against the large vein underneath. His fingertips wriggle to the roots of your hair where he pulls harder, thrusting his hips up into your mouth. The force makes you gag a few times, but you suck harder at the tip, making him curse and moan - a feeling close to power filling you up at the sound.

Before long The Boss is bucking against your mouth. Your lips hurt from the friction, saliva seeping down your chin and throat. A drop of drool runs down the center of your chest, soaking into your bra. Your hand is soaked with spit as it leaks out around your grip on him as he forces himself in and out of your mouth.

Abruptly, the Joker snaps his hips back down, pulling out. He stands, forcing you backward with the momentum of his body. Your bare back and ass bump against the cold glass of the two-way mirrored wall, a gasp forcing the Boss’ eyes to your face. He reaches up with his left hand to trace the scarred “J” on your chest.

Easily, he lifts you back up onto him, urging your legs to wrap around his hips. You squeeze him with your legs, holding on tight to his neck and shoulders, biting your bottom lip, not sure about this position. The Boss hoists you up and against the glass, the cold material causing gooseflesh to sweep over your arms. His green hair is all fucked up now, a little frizzy and sticking up in the back from his brief stint laying down while you blew him. You smirk, digging your fingers in to the roots, pulling hard. He growls, gloved hand guiding his erection into you before he snaps his hips forward, your head smacking against the glass.

“Fuck, Boss,” you gasp, yanking his hair harder.

“ _That’s_ it, Kitten,” he pants, moving your body up and down on himself, a groan building in his chest as you pull his hair and dig your nails into his ass cheek.

“It’s not fun unless it hurts,” you whisper, kissing him deep and hard, your tongue sliding against his and tracing at his silver grill.

The glass window shutters in its frame, this position quickly becoming uncomfortable and difficult to maintain. The Boss’ legs start to shake and he shouts when you bite his tongue, dropping you rather quickly to hold his mouth with a glove-laden hand and his dick with the other. Groaning half in pain and half in pleasure as he cums on your leg, back arched with his head facing the ceiling. You grimace, grabbing his sweatpants off the floor to wipe it off.

“Bitch,” he snarls, backhanding you. You smirk, holding the hot cheek that’s turning red with heat at the abuse.

“It got you off,” you say smugly, “it was worth it.”

“Ha-HA,” he grins, teeth all red and silver now. He spits blood on the floor and wipes at his mouth. You pull your clothes back on and turn to face the Boss.

“ **See **.****  To the other _guest_ , Kitten,” he says, slipping your knife back into your hand with the blade still open, “I’m not done with this one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Formatting fixed. Added a link to the song that the chapter is titled after.


	12. Use Your Fist and Not Your Mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: I've worked on this fucking chapter every day since my last update. Not perfectly happy with it, but I'm posting it regardless to push this beast forward. 
> 
> *WARNING* This chapter includes graphic violence and torture.
> 
> *Edits* Changed "Lamborghini" to "Vaydor" and fixed minor grammatical errors/awkward wording.

(Chapter title from [Marilyn Manson song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xr2ptCGvhZE) of the same name.)

 

****Chapter 12: Use Your Fist and Not Your Mouth** **

The gray door opens with a long _squeeak_ , alerting Colt that he has a visitor. The floor is pitched down toward a drain. There’s no mirror, just four filthy cinder-block walls with a large metal hook centered in the back. The Suit moves into the room, walking along the perimeter to stand near the hook. Colt lies with his wrists and feet tied separately on the floor, a black blindfold secured around his blond head.

 

“Hello?,” Colt calls, his tone tense yet arrogant. He tries to move his limbs, wiggling like a tall caterpillar in too-small skin. He whimpers as his gunshot wound gets jostled, stilling immediately.

 

Your knife is a comfortable weight in your dominant hand, tongue gliding over your teeth as you observe your prey. Your sneakers make little sound as you move into the room and circle the wounded man.

 

Donny shifts to clasp his fingers in front of him. He watches you eye Colt, feet shoulder-width apart - like a human statue.

 

“You’re a shit negotiator,” you say, soft and clear.

 

“Youstupid bitch!,” Colt spits, confidently, “you’re dead.” Squatting beside him, you jab a finger against the gunshot wound on his back, blood coating your finger. He screams, the sound loud in your head. Reaching out, you roughly yank the blindfold off his head and grab his face hard, smearing blood on his chin.

 

Your fingers dig into his jaw, distorting his face. “You’re a gift that keeps giving,” you smile, nose almost touching his. He tries to scowl around your hand, gearing up to spit at you. Roughly shoving his face away, he spits on your shoe, instead. With a swing of your sneaker, you catch him in the mouth with it’s toe. His tooth catches on his bottom lip and he spits blood, his carefully styled blond hair sticking out in all directions. Those forest eyes glare up at you with malice, handsome face morphing into a sneer.

 

“Your ego landed you here,” you sigh, “Do you agree, Don Juan?” The Suit chuckles at the new nickname. You’re getting used to being around him now. His persistent presence has become a comfort, particularly in the absence of the Boss.

 

“Yeah, I do,” Donny says, a barely-there smile threatening to bloom on his lips. You grin, a rush of power surging beneath your skin - your madness wanting to _play_. A shudder climbs your spine, the thought reminding you of the Boss.

 

You point to the hook. Donny lifts Colt, grunting when he hoists the other man up so his bound wrists hang from the large metal fixture. Colt screams, head thrown back in agony as his arms are forced skyward. He sobs, all the weight of his body leaning on that wounded shoulder. Tears glisten in the young man’s eyes, his breathing coming in strangled gasps as he tries to move his legs, jostling his body more. The thick rope at his ankles prevent his legs from moving much.

 

“Where’s that confidence now, _Colt?_.” You cluck your tongue, the sound causing him to dart his eyes to you, his face a mask of pain. His expression is desperate: Green eyes glistening, his lower lids filling with tears before they track down his face. His shoulder weeps blood through the blazer as you circle to his back. Stepping closer to the man to inspect the wound, there’s no exit in the front - the bullet is still inside.

 

His suspension has his body twisting around slowly, like a lazy fan trying to break the summer’s heat. He groans loudly, crying openly from the pain. “What do you want?,” he gasps, a small fleck of bubbly spit landing on his bottom lip, catching the light. You lean toward him, close to his face, staring at the fleck of spittle. He licks it off, a nervous gesture that makes you smile, your eyes sliding up to his. Pain looks lovely on that sculpted face - his high cheek bones lead your eyes down to his semi-square jaw and subtly cleft chin.

 

“Who do you work for?,” you ask, lifting the edge of his blazer to run your knife up along the seam, splitting it in two. It unintentionally relieves some of the pressure around his wound, giving you a clearer view of what you have to work with.

 

“Falcone,” he answers quickly, licking his bottom lip once more. A tear slips from his eyes - face a study in agony. Sweat is beginning to line his upper lip in perfect little ovals. “Oh, God,” he sobs, spit forming bubbles in the corner of his mouth as he cries like an abandoned child.

 

“And?,” you prod, continuing to rip the seam to his right shoulder. Tossing each piece of ripped fabric to the side, a pile forms at your feet. He hisses and shouts as you rip the blazer along his wound. With the blazer in ruins, you can clearly see the entire back left of his expensive pin stripe button-down sodden with blood. The pale gold stripes accentuate his eyes.

 

Stepping back, you appraise the little shit hanging before you: His sides pinch in at the waist, narrow hips - an hour-glass figure. Colt’s forehead is beginning to sweat, his skin losing its sun-kissed color.

 

“Don’t keep me waiting,” you scold teasingly, voice deep and low. You stand so close behind him your bodies touch. Slipping your left hand under the front of his shirt, your palm flattens against his toned stomach. The little curves of muscle tremble beneath your touch, fingers sliding up, up, up. A gasp at the unexpected contact when your fingers curl, nails _just_  scratching his clammy skin. Sweat drips down the side of his nice, his sharp cheek bones glistening as if fevered when you lean to the side to glimpse his face. Moving your hand up his abdomen toward his pecks, you watch his chest heave, his breathing becoming more labored. Feeling around his shoulder, he shouts when your finger touches something hard and strangely shaped beneath the skin there.

 

“Please,” he begs, his jaw clenching against the tears, his bright green eyes pleading for you to let him go. His body twists in mid-air.

 

“Such pretty eyes,” you smile, leaning close to lick a tear from his cheek with the very tip of your tongue as his body spins _slooowly_  in front of you.

 

“I’ll give you anything you want,” he says hoarsely, hope in his voice.

 

“Do you think I can’t just **take**  it?” you scoff. Shaking your head, you slip both arms around him from behind. Lifting your knife to cut the thin threads of the pearly white buttons on his shirt, they fall and bounce on the hard floor - spitting out in different directions. Colt closes his eyes, swallowing, Adam’s apple bobbing. An almost whining sound comes from him when you rip the front of his shirt open, using the knife to cut down the back. Blood and sweat stick the shirt to his skin like organic glue. You peel it away from his skin, his loud sobbing causing you to scowl at his weakness. The wound looks angry and messy, seeping new blood with the clothing being pulled. Spinning him around, you can see a large red mark and some bruising on the shoulder you’d touched.

 

Don Juan whistles, chuckling. “Bullet’s close to the skin. Easily removed.”

 

You slip a hand into Colt’s rear pocket and remove his leather wallet, carefully running the flat of the blade down the center of his exposed chest. The leather smells clean and new.

 

“T-told me to get all the evidence . . .and kill you,” he says quickly, his eyes tracking your movements, his voice getting higher when the knife’s edge touches the waist of his pants.

 

Pausing, you move your knife away to slip the license from the wallet. “Is Edward Colt your real name?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You’re rather dim, Edward. If you were smart, you’d have _seen_ myallegiance in the park.” With a tilt of your head, you brush your long locks to the side, revealing the red diamond on your neck. Confusion clouds his eyes, sweat dripping down his forehead,the movement catching your gaze.

 

“Do you know who _my_  Boss is, Edward?,” your voice lilting at the end, fingers trailing his waist as you circle him closely, fingertips dragging along his cool skin. He’s looking pale now.

 

“N-no,” he stutters, his lips moist, teeth chattering. His shoulder is oozing still, the skin red and extremely raw. You motion for Donny to lift him off the hook.

 

As if on cue, “ha HAAA,” echoes down the hall.

 

Edward’s eyes dart to the doorway and he starts muttering, “Oh no, oh God, oh no.” His eyes bulge, still glued to the door, but you don’t take the time to see if the Boss has made it in for the show.

 

“I _can_  be merciful,” you say quietly, your voice almost husky, “It’s a choice, yes?” Colt’s eyes pull back to you, his eyelids overflowing again.

 

“Y-yess,” he chatters hastily, teeth clinking together uncomfortably. His breathing is too fast now, he’s going into shock. “Puh-please,” he sighs, a soft sob at the end. Another tear glides down his cheek.

 

“You’re of little use to me alive, Edward.” The man cries, sniffling pathetically. “But you’re even more useless to me unconscious or dead.”

 

Licking the top row of your teeth, you turn and find yourself face-to-chest with the Boss, his chin tilted up and his head to the side watching you closely. He doesn’t seem too interested in your captive hanging from the hook.

 

“Boss,” you smile, your knife relaxed in your hand.

 

“Proceed,” he says, voice gravelly and low. He waves his hand elegantly toward Edward and steps around you, hip-checking you. Your stance remains balanced, but a smirk tilts your lips at the contact.

 

“This ‘Boss’ stuff is gettin’ old, Kitten,” he says casually leaning against the door frame, using a toe to scoot a rolling tray into the room. Your eyes dart to his, suppressing a shudder that threatens to make you look __too__  affected by him. Your arms sprout gooseflesh as he stares, bottom jaw working to the sides. You wait, almost impatient for him to go on and reveal what you’re supposed to call him.

 

“Mr. J will do,” he grins, muscular arms crossing in front of his chest, eyes penetrating and fierce as they rove over Edward Colt hanging in the rear of the room. Mr. J’s mostly-penetrating bullet bruises the front of Edward’s shoulder as Colt cries in pain, his shirt cut open and bloody in the back.

 

Without another word, the Boss - Mr. J - leaves the room, whistling merrily. The sound echoes and you glance at Don Juan who stands stoically in the back, expression blank.

 

Edward’s body shakes and his eyes flutter, signaling he’ll be passing out soon. “We’re going to do some surgery, Edward. It’s time to get that bullet out.” He whimpers and struggles, only hurting himself more, a broken record of “no, no, no,” his weak protests.

 

“I said I can be merciful,” you scoff, shaking your head. “Too stupid to realize when someone’s doing him a favor, also, Don Juan.”

 

“It would seem so,” he says, moving to the door to retrieve the Boss’s gift tray and wheel it toward you. It’s got all manner of tools in two neat little rows. Glancing quickly over the array, you sigh.

 

“I need more than this.” You relay a list to Donny who nods and leaves the room while your clean your knife on a discarded scrap of Edward’s ruined blazer. Clipping it back to your pants, you pull a pair of lavender gloves onto both hands, stepping toward Edward to gently hold his face, staring into his hooded emerald eyes.

 

“I’m going to save your life, Edward,” he makes little wounded sounds, his eyes drooping dangerously closed. “If you go to sleep, you’re not going to survive. I suggest you listen carefully.”

 

Edward blinks hard several times, eyelids fluttering open. His pupils are blown wide, more black than green. You keep holding his face to help focus his attention. “Good.  I choose to be _merciful_ toward you, Edward Colt. I’m going to remove the bullet from your shoulder. It’s going to hurt. Your job is to stay awake. Because if you don’t, you’re going to die.”

 

The man nods weakly just as Donny reappears, pushing a long table on wheels stacked with the additional supplies you’d asked for. The table holds a half-empty bottle of top-shelf vodka, several boxes of gauze, and stretchy bandage material. A long-necked lamp is clamped to the very top of the table. Handcuffs are secured to one leg on all sides.

 

Grabbing the supplies, you motion for Donny to move Edward onto the table. With Edward in place, Donny easily cuts the rope to his wrists. Each of you take a hand and secure it in place with an open handcuff, leaving him stuck to the table’s top. You do the same for his ankles, securing him to the table. You slip the blindfold from your pocket and tie it around his mouth.

 

“Stay. **Awake** ,” you remind him, your gloved hands grabbing a scalpel as you motion for Donny to turn the light above the table on. You dip the instrument into the vodka to sanitize it. Donny adjusts the neck of it so the light shines directly on the bruise at the front of his shoulder.

 

The Suit watches as if interested as you make a slow and shallow cut along the hard edge of the bullet. Edward whimpers beneath you. The little line fills with fresh blood as soon as you make it. With continued slow and shallow cuts around the shape of the object, you pull the light lower to inspect the buried bullet. You can _just_  see the press of it against the skin in the center of the outline you’ve made. It’s a large circular shape.

 

“Bite that gag, Edward,” you warn, cutting deep enough to get to the bullet on most sides. The man screams at the pain and writhes against the handcuffs. Donny palms his chest to hold him down. You move the flap of skin you’ve created and grimace at the red beneath it, your stomach churning when blood runs in little streams down his chest and side toward onto the table. You grab a pair of needle-nose pliers from the tray , dip them into the vodka, and slowly, carefully remove the bullet from his shoulder. It feels like a more fucked up and real version of Operation, where you try not to touch the sides. Only, this time, instead of an annoying buzzer, a man is screaming in agony beneath you. Edward screams and cries behind the gag, still awake.

 

“Almost there,” you whisper, dropping the spent slug on the tray. Motioning for Donny to hand you some gauze, you grab the Vodka, tipping the gauze over the edge of the bottle to soak it. Carefully patting the skin around the new cut you’ve made, you feel somewhat bad for the man tied to the table. He was incredibly stupid, yes, but did he really deserve all __this__  for it? After all, you were both doing your own Boss’ bidding . . .kind of.

 

You push the sympathy down and focus on the task at hand, using the Vodka to sterilize the area without pressing it directly to the wound just yet. Using a clean bit of gauze, you drop the dirty shit to the floor, soaking it with more booze. Pressing that directly over the wound, Edward screams, bolting upright, his abs tense and defined as he jolts upward as much as the handcuffs will allow. You drop the used gauze again as Donny shoves him back down. Grabbing more clean gauze, you hold them tight to the wound for about ten minutes before you add more over top the dry ones. The blood doesn’t quite seep through all the layers yet. Using medical tape, you tape the gauze to his chest and motion for Donny to turn him around on the table.

 

Simultaneously, you both uncuff first his hands, then feet. Turning him over with a joint effort, you grunt, laying him down somewhat gently. Edward is heavy and barely responsive at this point. You cup his chin once he’s secured stomach-down on the table so you can see the entrance wound. “STAY. AWAKE,” you scold. “It’s almost over.”

 

Nodding weakly, he slurs, “th-th-thane yew.”

 

Using the vodka as a disinfectant once again, you clean the area around the wound before cleaning the wound directly. He cries at the burn of it, sniffling quietly, his nose dripping clear snot onto the table. You layer the wound with dry gauze and tape it on. Uncuffing him once again, Donny gets Edward to sit up with his feet hanging off the table. Edward can barely support himself, but you keep his body close, leaning against you for support.

 

“I just have to wrap it, now,” you say quietly, using the stretchy bandage to loop it around his shoulder at an angle, having to try several times before you get it right. Once it’s secure, you remove the gag from Edward. He slumps forward against you, his forehead on your shoulder.

 

 ****♦** ** **** ****♦** ** **** ****♦** ** **** ****♦** **

****

“Well, Donny Boy. How’d Kitten do?,” the Boss asks, his tone bored. Sporting a new button-down of burgundy wine, his holster gleams metallic purple on his shoulders. An empty glass of with the remnants of an amber liquid and several ice cubes is neatly sitting on a marble coaster. Pulling your eyes to his exposed chest, you lick your chapped bottom lip, tonguing the patch of dry skin.

 

Mr. J is refilling the magazine of his 1911. Once finished, he quietly pushes it back into the handle of the pistol, setting the gun on the desk. A black microfiber cloth sits beneath it to protect the expensive oak surface from scratches.

 

Rubbing his palms together in a show of eagerness, Mr. J’s face breaks into an show of excitement. The Suit glances past where you stand in the doorway to Mr. J’s office - lavender gloves still adorning your wrists - to stare at the Boss.

 

“Not bad for a first-timer,” Donny says, smoothly.

 

“Ha-HA,” his silver grin flashes at you. Mr. J stands from his desk. He’s wearing a clean pair of charcoal gray pinstripe pants. Lifting his gun, he inspects it, grabs the cloth to swipe at a spot near the barrel and spins it on his finger, holstering it with class. Swaggering toward the doorway where you stand, he yanks you hard against his side in a dramatic hug before tossing you away like an outdated toy. His expression remains neutral. You stumble further into the room with the push, sneakers catching on the hardwood floor with a loud squeak.

  
”A housekeeper, Danny Boy and get Kitten to an appoint with the Doc-tor at noon.” The Suit nods once and motions for you to proceed him out the door. Mr. J jogs down the stairs, his leather shoes tapping loudly on the marble. The doors to the garage are slammed open, the sound of a car door closing before the loud growl of his Vaydor. Mr. J has left the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Formatting fixed. Added a link to the song that the chapter is titled after.


	13. In A Jar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following means that time has passed: ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦.

(Chapter title inspired by the [Brand New song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sr-oUU0gqwg) of the same name.)

 

**Chapter 13: In A Jar**

The ride to Doctor Murphy’s new office is short and uneventful. Donny drops you off in front of the building - a tall skyscraper with many shining windows in the early afternoon sunlight. You push the black SUV passenger door open, pausing when Don Juan speaks.

 

“Find me when you’re done,” he says, pointing toward a side lot across the street. Nodding, you shut the door and walk toward the tall building, dragging your black and white Chucks along the glittering sidewalk. This section of the city, the Upper East Side is all shiny with old money. There’s almost a line you can see where this place starts - separating itself from the rest of Gotham.

 

The interior of the business building is posh and spotless, a black and white color scheme floor-to-ceiling. The walls are a reflective black material that you can’t place. White granite floors gleam up at you, your hollow eyes and serious expression glaring back from the unmarred surface. Silver-plated picture frames spotlight expensive abstract art in cool colors. The entire place feels cold and detached - the pulse of corporate greed.

 

Sucking on your dry bottom lip, you pause in front of the copper plaques with each building suite labeled, no, _engraved_. Guess they didn’t plan on their residents changing buildings or going out of business. Running a finger down the line, you smile when your skin blemishes the gleaming surface of the metal plaque.

 

Dr. Alex Murphy, Suite 18A. You turn your head toward the _ding_  of elevators. A small handful of stuffy-suited people release from the automatic doors like a puff of cigarette smoke through open lips.

 

Squeaking your finger against the plaque, you turn your body and drop your arm casually to your side, eyes hooded with exhaustion and the need to be anywhere else. The Suits flood out the doors into the beautiful Fall afternoon without so much as a glance at you. The hint of a smile flutters at your lips.

 

Feeling like the crack in this pristine building’s foundation, you run your dirty fingers along the clean, sleek black wall, leaving smudges in your wake. Jamming the elevator button, you slip inside the doors when it _dings_.

 

Violently jabbing the number 18 button, you ignore rushed heel clicks as someone tries to make the same elevator. With a loud **BAM** , you hit your fist against the “close door” button, watching the blond woman scowl at you through the barely-open doors before the elevator jolts and ascends.

 

A feeling of apprehension fills your stomach. Dizziness sets in and you lean your back against the rear wall, sucking a deep breath in through your nose. Lips parting, you hold your breath for a moment when the lights flicker once, twice. A loud rumble and you curse, a nervous bite to your bottom lip. Was it supposed to rain today?

 

Of the many things that terrified you, the Boss included - being stuck in an elevator was close to the top of that list. Feeling claustrophobic, you grit your teeth and move toward the doors. For a fleeting moment you could picture the Boss asking someone to kill the power just to fuck with you.

 

 _Why the fuck did Mr. J insist I continue to see Murphy, anyway?_  It didn’t make any sense. You were barred from meds by the Boss - he insisted that you didn’t need it. Mr. J also pushed that the appointments remain with mother _fucking_  Murphy. So, if he wasn’t going to give you pills, why the fuck were you seeing him still? It’s not like he could cure your fucking Schizophrenia! Granted, it’s only actually been a few days since you ran into the Joker again. . . Three days to be exact, which felt more like three _weeks_.

 

The elevator dings and you step out into the hall as the lights dim again. Cursing, you slam the door to Suite 18A open and march past the cheap furniture. All of this normalcy - it feels wrong after you’ve partially tortured a man just an hours ago.

 

And how the fuck did Murphy get back to his practice so fast? Maybe he didn’t have a choice. Just because he’s back to taking appointments doesn’t mean he’s fine . . the thought makes you smile smugly.

 

“Welcome. Please have a seat,” Murphy says from the chair behind his computer. You notice the extra cushion on the chair and force yourself not to laugh out loud at him. His glasses lie low on his nose, a different pair than the ones he’d had before everything got all fucked up. Before you got mixed up with the Joker. Again . . .

 

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

 

“So,” Donny says, glancing at you in the rear-view mirror. “How was your . . . appointment?”

 

You glare at him from the back seat, turning to stare quietly out the window. “I don’t talk about my therapy,” you say, clipped.

 

“Alright,” he says, shrugging. His suit jacket looks a little wrinkled, like maybe he’s been sitting for too long. It had to be boring as hell waiting around in a car.

 

“Why do you wait, anyway?,” you ask, picking at one of your peeling cuticles. Your nails are short with several broken and jagged edges. All the physical shit over the last few days has ruined them pretty thoroughly.

 

“I don’t talk about my orders,” he smirks, playing your no-answer game. Chuckling dryly, he winks when you rudely give him the finger. He turns the radio on, raising the volume to drown out any sounds within the car. You scowl as country music floats around you, filling your head with baleful singing and depressing themes.

 

Donny stops the car in front of a run-down looking building with “Toppy’s Temps” strewn across the front on a banner. It doesn’t even have a proper sign! Motioning for you to get out, he says, “go in and ask for a maid to this address. Tell them nothing else.” He shoves a small business card into your hands. The card is blank except for an address handwritten in elegant script. The Boss’ handwriting? Furrowing your eyebrows, you stare at Don Juan, shaking your head.

  
”The Boss asked _you_  to find a maid.”

 

“It’s not a choice, kid,” Donny scoffs, unholstering his gun.

 

“You’re serious right now. You’re drawing on me for not getting a maid.”

 

“Go.”

 

“ **You**. Are fucking ridiculous,” you seethe, shoving the door open and slamming it shut, walking angrily into the agency.

 

The place looks more like a fast food restaurant. The lobby is tiny with just the one room. A glass window with a mirror and a speaker in the center takes up one entire wall. The glass is filthy with little flecks and smudges of multi-colored substances all over. Grimacing, you step closer to the mirror and ignore your reflection. The entire place is grimy and shady. The doorbell to the right of the mirror looks just as filthy. Flicking your right hand, you pull your hoodie sleeve down over your skin and press the button. A loud squealing from a microphone hurts your head, making you cover your ears.

 

A crunchy voice pipes through into the small room, so muffled it’s almost impossible to make out what the person is saying. “Welcome to Toppy’s where the temps are hard to Top! How can we assist you today?”

 

“Maid service. This address,” you say, leaning toward the speaker. Well, getting closer was a mistake. You get a good glimpse of your shitful reflection in the mirror. Like a fucking drug addict: your hair is frizzy and uncombed, the curls and waves scattered as if by a huge gust of wind, pasty skin the color of Elmer’s glue making the large circles beneath your eyes look more like bruises.

 

Slipping the small card with the address under the little slot in the mirrored window, you walk away, ignoring the voice speaking again. Relief spills over you as the doors close behind you, effectively drowning out the microphone.

 

You go to open the door to Donny’s black SUV finding it locked. The dark tint on the windows makes it difficult to tell if anyone’s inside. Scowling, you cup a hand over the top of your eyes to stare into the car. The car beeps beneath your hand and you startle, moving back a step.

 

The Suit chuckles behind you, a paper bag with the opening folded down in his hand. He motions for you to get in to the passenger seat instead of in the back. You eyeball him for a minute, jogging around to the other side as he gets in.

 

Once you’re both in, he starts the car, pulling his seatbelt on. You mirror his motions, the belt clicking into place. Donny’s right hand digs into the paper bag that’s starting to stain clear with grease. He stuffs a handful of french fries into his mouth and holds the open bag out toward you. Without a second thought, you glance at your dirty hands and shrug, taking a few fries for yourself.

 

Until that moment, you hadn’t realized that you were actually fucking _starving_. As if on cue, your stomach gurgles loudly. Donny reaches back into the bag and pulls out a foil-wrapped something. He hands it to you. You thank him, unwrapping the cheeseburger and moan in delight.

 

“Ohhhh my God! You’re the best,” you mutter, stuffing your face eagerly with the fast food. He laughs, a full-bellied sound that fills the car and makes you smile, licking a bit of gooey cheese from the corner of your mouth. Donny smiles back, unwrapping his own, taking a large bite. A spot of mayo sticks to his growing beard and you hand him a napkin, which he thanks you for, immediately swiping it across his mouth.

 

“The Boss doesn’t eat this shit. I thought you might enjoy it,” he admits quietly, stuffing another handful of fries into his mouth. He chews politely with his mouth closed and you try to do the same.

 

Don Juan drives you both back toward Amusement Mile while you eat in companionable silence. Feeling a little less angry at his threat from earlier, you’re amazed at how food could butter you up so easily - maybe you _were_  more like a Pet, after all . . .

 

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

 

It took Edward Colt four days to heal and get his cover story straight. In that time, you and Don Juan had stitched his wound and stolen a 2-week supply of antibiotics from a local Veterinarian clinic. Not too shabby, if you said so yourself since he was your first torture victim _and_  good deed all in the same day.

 

“I like new toys,” you smile while he fights to button a new button-down dress shirt. You can’t help but fuck with him. The shirt is expensive and gold, somewhat shimmery - athletic style, pulling in at his sides to show off his slight frame. Left hand trembling, his muscles are still weak from the wound. Moving from the doorway, you swat his hands away without making contact, quickly buttoning the shirt. The moment feels intimate even with your impatience. He’s staring at you and you glance up to look back at him, refusing to allow yourself to feel self-conscious.

 

“Need me to tuck it in?,” you smirk, raising an eyebrow. He scowls and turns away from you, easing the tails of the shirt into his newly tailored pants. They’re a deep brown like the earth after a fresh rainstorm.

 

Taking in the sculpted face of your new toy, his skin has gotten its golden color back  - his tan skin just slightly paler than when you first met. Colt’s eyes dart back and forth from your eyes to your neck - clearly he remembers the visit from Mr. J from last night. Your close proximity feels strange, intimate still. Refusing to be the first one to step back, you stare up at him, expression neutral. Entertaining the idea of the man in front of you, his eyes dart toward the door and he steps back once, twice. The Boss.

 

Mr. J slips into the room, crossing his arms to rest them over your shoulders, leaning his chin on the top of your head to stare over at Edward. Since both men are taller than you, it’s easy for the Boss to see the former captive-turned-spy.

  
”And why is he still alive?,” the Boss asks, voice deep yet curious. His elbows begin to dig into your flesh as he allows his weight to rest on you.

 

“He makes the perfect plant,” you say, remaining still. “Jolts the plan into overdrive. I’m hopeful it’ll skim at least a month off the original timeline.”

 

“If you succeed, _Duckling_ ,” Mr. J breathes in your ear, his arms unfolding to slide his palms down either side of your body, grabbing hard at your ass. “You’ll get a raise,” he cackles, sweeping out of the room, his laughter high and manic. _Duckling?_  

 

You keep your expression neutral, not willing to give Edward Colt any inclination of your reaction to the Boss.

 

“Tell me again,” you say to Colt, sitting on the edge of his cot. He sits as well with a sigh, running a hand quickly through his unwashed hair. There’s a small bit of space between you now, the atmosphere returning to normal. Grimacing at the texture of his own hair, he tenses his jaw and turns to you.

 

“I take the jump drive with half of the shit you have on Falcone back to him, telling him it’s everything. I show him the . . .,” he shivers, pointing toward a small jar near his briefcase. “Tell him it’s yours, proof that you’re dead. It starts a turf war between them.”

 

With a grin, you stand and hold out your hand to him. He takes in your uneven nails and the sleeve of your hoodie covering most of your palm - your fingertips peeking out like mini turtles. “Make me a proud, Mama, Edward,” you wink, lifting the jar off the floor to toss it to him.

 

Edward catches it and holds it gingerly between two fingers, inspecting the small piece of human skin bearing a red diamond inside. It’s Trix’s contribution to the Boss’ cause, even after her death. The human toy grimaces as a shiver tracks up his spine.

 

Colt watches you disappear out the door. “I won’t disappoint. I value my life,” he scoffs, “ _Duckling_.”

 

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

 

Mr. J wanted to be at the first meeting with Edward Colt after he went back to Falcone with his tail between his legs; Wanted to be sure you did a thorough job teaching him who his knew master was.

 

Anxiousness made it difficult for you to sit, so you stood outside the car, arms crossed beneath the Sprang bridge. The terms were simple: Edward would contact you either every two weeks or once a significant move was made on Falcone’s side. He’d siphon information to you, which you would offer to The Joker. Edward got to live another two weeks and the relationship would continue until the eventual gang war that your plot was instigating. At that time Edward would have to prove himself either an ally, an enemy, or used goods.

 

Having had a long, hot shower and some extra attention from the Boss during it, he’d made it apparent he expected you to dress according to his mood: A long black dress sat snugly against your frame, showing off your figure, tall black boots not allowing _too_  much skin to show. The Boss likes the unknown, the tease of finding out what’s underneath. With hips and a decent rack you feel comfortable.

 

Mr. J made sure you wore a matching set of lingerie beneath the gauzy material, the pattern clearly visible beneath the sheer black of the dress. With makeup covering your gaunt features, you look more put-together, boosting your confidence for a meeting you’ve been anticipating and nervous about in equal measure. It didn’t hurt to look decent at a meeting with two attractive men, even if one was just a silly toy proving his worth.

 

The sound of the waves from Gotham River whispers up against the rocky shore; It does little to ease your nerves. Your clean curls writhe in the breeze, having a mind of their own.

 

It’s quarter to midnight. He’s got five minutes to show before you track him down and take care of him once and for all.

 

Mr. J casually hangs one arm out the car’s open window to show off the large rings adorning his fingers. The Boss playfully grabs a wavy tendril of your hair as it floats by his open window.

 

A small white sedan pulls off the main road and winds down the slow access-way toward Don Juan, the Boss and yourself.

 

The Joker has his gun in his hand, the hammer knocked back shortly after his car was in park. He winds one of your long wavy strands around his finger and twirls it tighter gently, slowly increasing the pressure until it hurts. Tensing your jaw, you try hard not to acknowledge the arousal the pain induces - making you too aware of your nipples pressing against the satin lingerie.

 

Edward Colt looks delicious stepping nervously out of his pristine white car. His blond hair is neatly styled and recently cut, a side-part making him a feast of clean lines and warm colors. His face is clean-shaven showing off his high cheek bones and strong jaw. The suit is perfectly tailored; A storm cloud gray, the shirt a bold yellow with a silver tie. He holds his palms up and lets Don Juan search him thoroughly.

 

The Boss releases your hair to pop the door ajar. You move to swing the door fully open. Mr. J hooks his arm around your neck, crooking his elbow to yank you close with his bicep and forearm. He kisses your mouth, tongue prodding your lips open. It’s strange, like a show of dominance or ownership. _But, why?_

 

Slowly, you lean back as far as his arm will allow and breathe open-mouthed against his lips. He purrs, a ridiculously sexy sound, before he drops his arm from your neck and holds his ring out to Edward without looking at him.

 

 _Does he feel threatened by Edward?_  The thought makes you smirk against his lips, but you don’t entertain it for more than the second it took to form in your brain. Trying to ignore the Boss’s gun-hand on your hip, you gasp when he pulls yours forward against him, realizing he’s aroused.

 

“Keep it up, Kitten” he breathes into your ear. Unsure if it’s a warning or a command, you turn your body to face Edward and lean against Mr. J, pressing your backside against his crotch. He slips his gun arm across your chest, fingers pressing against a nipple on their way to your waist.

 

Edward cautiously moves forward, watching you and the Boss together, eyes bouncing between both of you. He kisses the Boss’ ring and steps back, eyes resting on Mr. J.

 

“Do you like my Kitten, _Colt_ ,” the Boss grins, saying his name like a dirty word though the grin hides his malice - just barely. Edward licks his bottom lip and the Boss’ expression grows serious, the grin falling from his face.

 

Edward stutters, “y-yes. Terrifying, actually.” The Joker chuckles, pulling on your hip to press your body against his. Edward remains still, but you can tell from his posture that he notices.

 

“Well?,” Mr. J says, impatiently, waiting for Edward’s information.

 

“Plan’s in motion. Falcone’s paranoid that you want his turf, but more concerned about his clients. He’s gearing up for war, but it’s going to take him time.” Edwards fern-colored eyes nail you with a significant look - a mixture of confusion and inquiry.

 

The Boss nods once and you open the car door for him. Don Juan climbs back into the driver’s seat. “You’ll be Kitten’s problem now,” the Boss grins out the window, waving theatrically. “Clean up your toys when you’re done,” he adds, coldly.

 

Clenching your jaw for a few seconds, you ignore the Boss’ taunt and his car as it climbs back up the access-way, leaving you with your toy. So, he’s going to play, huh? Two can do that.

 

Edward stays, glancing from the Boss’ car back over to you. “He do that all the time?,” he asks, eyebrow furrowed in confusion. You laugh, smirking in amusement at the blond man before you. He feels a little more comfortable with the Boss gone now, his shoulders relaxing as his eyes rake up your body to your face.

 

“Wanna play?,” you ask quietly, moving to stalk around him slowly, painted nails reaching toward his suit jacket. His eyes track your movement, his posture remaining the same, unafraid for now. It’s difficult to read him. The Boss has put you in an awkward position, but you’ll play his game. You have a feeling you know why he ditched you. If he was or wasn’t jealous, you were going to prove it, one way or another.

 

Colt takes a deep breath in through his nose and glances around, as if waiting for an ambush. “I don’t understand.”

 

“I’m the Boss’ toy. _You_  are mine. Do you want to play?,” you ask, stepping up to him, hands gently sliding beneath the lapels of his suit. You’re close, tilting your head to stare at him, eyes taking in that _face_. His eyes move over your face, taking in your fair skin, nude lipstick and dark-lined eyes. He likes this kind of mask, it makes you seem normal, safer. You let your hands slide down and fall away from him, stepping backward as he’s getting more interested. Edward watches, unmoving. You’ve got his attention.

 

“Your choice,” you smile coyly, walking backward, one step, then another - toward his car and the access way. He doesn’t move, watching you pass his car, sashaying backward without exaggerating it. The boots and dress do enough on their own without extra theatrics. You spin and start to walk to the access road and up to the bridge.

Hearing the engine of his car, you refuse to turn to see whether he’s going to run you over. If he does, the Boss will kill him. Not particularly over you, of course, more like a waste of useful goods or resources.

 

The car speeds toward you, but you keep walking slowly up the incline toward the Sprang bridge. There’s little-to-no traffic this late, it would be a good opportunity for him to take advantage of your vulnerability. _But, will he?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Formatting fixed. Added a link to the song that the chapter is titled after.


	14. The Nobodies

(Chapter title inspired by the [Manson song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yaSqtP2nF2M) of the same name.)

 

****Chapter 14: The Nobodies** **

The white sedan pulls up beside you and slows to a crawl, the driver’s side window is open. Smiling, you walk in front of the car, teasing his sense of decency and tempting fate. Edward Colt hits the brakes, the car stopping as you cross across the front, blowing him a kiss. He unlocks the passenger side door and you open it, gazing at him for a moment. He stares ahead at the road, avoiding you. _Yeah. Awkward for both of us._

 

“Where do you live?” he asks, rolling the car to the top of the access-way before the main bridge.

“Nowhere decent,” you reply, “in a hurry to get rid of me?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he scoffs, eyeing you.

“I didn’t have to save you,” you say, unfazed.

“I don’t have to give you a ride.”

“We’re not close to even, Goldilocks,” you smile casually, an air of nonchalance about you. You press the button to roll your window down and lean your arms against the windowsill, body facing the door.

 

“Why do you work for him?,” he asks, tone unsure.

“Why do you work for Falcone?”

“I don’t think that’s the same thing,” Edward says cautiously. Tilting your head back at the cool breeze that slips over your skin, you glance at Edward upside down. He runs a nervous hand through his hair, displacing the longest piece. It flops down to the side of his face, where he swipes at it again. The movement wafts his scent toward you in the cramped space: expensive cologne and clean skin. Your long waves of hair dangle, feeling heavy as you stare at him upside down.

 

Edward sighs before he turns his head to stare at you, raising an eyebrow. Feeling a little desperate _not_  to be alone right now, the slight from the Boss has you itching to do something of your own choice.

 

The Boss is with other women, of that you’re sure. For him to dump you off like some kind of used garbage, paired with his coldness about your clear attraction to Edward - it made sense. The loss of manipulation when his toy has become interested in someone else must make him irritated. It’s not jealousy, it’s annoyance at not being the center of attention, a loss of power, control. A power play that reminds you there is nothing between you but convenience. You are a human resource, a tool to be used and abused at his behest.

 

“Keep me company,” you offer, “no strings.”

“Just . . . stay with you?,” he asks, sounding unconvinced.

“Yeah,” you smile, the expression reaching your eyes as you lift your head and turn to look at him properly. His emerald eyes track along your face, reading your expression carefully. Pressing his lips together, his eyes rove back over yours and flick, quickly, to your mouth. __Yes, he likes this makeup mask__. He glances into your eyes, the corner of his mouth curving just a bit like he’s amused. His eyes glint with something familiar - mischief. You hum in approval and Edward hits the gas, pulling out of the access-way heading South toward Downtown Gotham.

 

“You want to stand out or blend in?,” he asks, the wind blowing your hair all around you and whipping against your skin. You breathe deep through your nose and then roll up the window, chilled but feeling alive and restless.

“Blend in,” you say quietly, turning to study him as he drives.

“That’s going to be a challenge,” he smirks, glancing over at you.

“What’s that supposed to mean?,” you snap, flicking your knife out of your boot to check the blade.

 

The air feels awkward, like you don’t know what to do around each other. Edward doesn’t want to relax. You can imagine him reminding himself that you’re his enemy; that you’re not there to help him. The set of his jaw and clench of his palms on the steering wheel tell you this. Of course, that could also be because you’re holding a weapon in close quarters.

 

After a few minutes, he turns right off of the Aparo Expressway and follows the Finger River toward Shnapp Ave. The familiar territory has you sinking back against the seat, an alarm going off in your head.

 

Edward stops at a red traffic light and looks poignantly at you before glancing out the passenger window. You turn to follow his gaze and see a GCPD wanted poster with __your booking picture__  attached to it. You look like a smug little shit in that photo - smirking at the cop while he took the picture, past the point of giving a shit about getting in trouble. Big trouble.

 

Smirking similarly now, you turn to look at Edward, leaning toward him. The traffic light turns green, his car the only one an the road right now.

“You gonna’ turn me in?,” you grin. He shakes his head, ‘no.’

“You know where I live.”  He nods in affirmation and shrugs.

“Yeah. Your face is all over the city. They’re not trying very hard to find you.”

“With the Boss around, I’m not surprise,” you laugh. “Maybe you’re not as dim as you first seemed, Goldilocks.”

“Gee, thanks,” he mutters, speeding through the next red light, headed toward Old Gotham, where old and new money blur into business conglomerates and penthouse apartments.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Entering a bar, you push the door open with two hands and hold it for Colt. He sidles in beside you, eyeing the place. A handwritten sign to the side reads: PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF.

 

Slipping into a corner booth, your lips part in surprise when Edward slides in beside you. His thigh bumps yours before you scoot over to give him more space. He moves closer again and pushes his leg against your, smiling, but not looking at you. It’s a cute thing to do and you laugh quietly, charmed by his shy but assertive move. He slips his blazer off, tossing it onto the empty bench.

“Considerate of you to give your clothing an entire side,” you smirk, thanking the waitress when she brings the rounds of shots Edward’s already ordered.

“That’s not why I sat here,” he winks cheekily.

“You sure I won’t bite?,” you flirt back.

“No, but I’m not opposed to it,” he smirks back.  

 

Sipping cinnamon whiskey on the rocks, you try not to think about Goldilocks’ leg pressed against yours. His skin feels hot already, like some kind of human furnace.

Edward takes a drink of his red wine. He seems more comfortable now, his arm resting partially across the backrest, elbow bent to keep his arm between you.

 

Goldilocks turns his body toward you, elegantly lifting the wine glass to his peach lips. He sips slowly, watching you swig your whiskey like it’s water. You sigh as warmth swims in your blood, ebbing between your legs from the alcohol and Goldilocks staring at you like _that_. You can feel your cheeks getting warmer.

 

“You haven’t been home in a while,” he states rather than asks.

“No,” you say on a breath, turning your face away from him as he watches you. He’s been keeping tabs on you. _If he’s seen the posters and made the connection, he knows my name at the very least. Chances are he could have done some digging to find out more._  That should bother you, should make you cautious, but you decide to file it away and let tonight be what it may.

 

Feeling uncomfortable with his gaze, you slide your empty glass to the edge of the table, thanking the waitress when she brings your third drink and Edward’s nachos. He motions for you to have some, pulling a cheesy chip to his lips, crunching down on it. He chews with his mouth closed, the quiet sound making you smile down into your glass. You haven’t asked much about him. Haven’t bothered to really prod him for information about his personal life.

 

“Where do you live?,” you ask, sipping from your glass. An ice cube bumps into your nose, causing you to spill a little of your whiskey on your chin. Colt snorts a laugh, covering his nacho-filled mouth before he grabs a napkin and offers it to you, hand shaking with his laughter. Your cheeks heat pink with embarrassment and you stick your tongue out at him, teasingly. He hums in approval, raising an eyebrow before taking a rushed sip of whiskey as if stifling a reaction to your teasing gesture.

“Close, though I’ve never been to this bar before,” he says evasively.

 

This thing with Edward Colt, whatever it’s shaping to be - it will always be something you can **never**  have with the Boss. This will be consensual. A __choice__. You won’t force it if Edward isn’t interested. He’ll take it or leave it - his choice. It could be nothing but two people sharing the same space with a tenuous connection or the weight of a sexual relationship. Each of you would **choose**  what part you played or didn’t.

 

Edward Colt could help you keep the Boss at bay, make you connected to someone __else__ no matter the type of connection. He could offer some kind of balance to the permanently fucked up scale your life has become. You need a bit of something all your own. Something fucking **_normal_**.

 

Impatient with the games, you grab the front of Edward’s shirt collar and yank him toward you, leaning toward him at the same time. Tilting your head, you gently take his bottom lip between your teeth and nip at it, tugging just a little. He tastes whiskey sweet and salty from the chips. He slips his tongue along the seam of your lips, asking to be let in. You acquiesce, opening your mouth to kiss him full-on.

 

Colt pulls you into his lap, turning to face the wall of the booth - like a protective wall blocking you from the rest of the bar. He places open-mouthed kisses along your neck, biting just under your ear. You gasp, the alcohol making you slow to respond. Hands fumbling to push up his chest, you grab his shoulders to steady yourself. Kneeling on either side of his lap, your dress makes it hard to move until you yank it up around your knees. Edward hums into your mouth when you kiss him hard - right hand grabbing the back of his neck to steady yourself and keep him close.

 

“Are you always this hot?,” you sigh into his ear. Your laps don’t quite touch, the booth restricting just how close your bodies get by blocking your knee. His left hand cups your jaw, leaning you back a little to get a look at your face.

“You don’t know how beautiful you are,” he breathes, his expression soft and serious - cheeks dashed red from the booze.

 

Your heart flutters wildly in your chest as his words sink in. You bite your lip - eyes becoming glassy as tears threaten to spill down your cheeks at his words. _Beautiful?_

 

“You’re wasted on him,” he sighs, running his hot thumb against your chin before he eases you beside him on the bench, aiding you in readjusting your dress. Rejection immediately settles into your heart - the alcohol making it harder to process what just happened.

 

“Bathroom break,” smiles sadly, slipping out of the booth to head toward the restroom.

 

You take a moment to compose yourself and blink rapidly to keep the tears at bay. Using the last of your cash, you pay the bill. Pushing your hands hard into the front door, a gust of cold air bites at your overheated skin.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Tears blind your vision, the alcohol in your system fucking up your quick escape. You turn right, grateful for the boots in place of heels tonight. Slipping your hand into your right boot, you slide the knife out and hold the warm metal in your palm. On reflex, you flick the blade open and tense your jaw. Leaning down has made you unsteady, the scrape of the wall against your knife-arm forcing you to stand and grab the wall for balance. In your drunken state, you’ll need an obvious deterrent to make it home safely at this hour. You pull your phone from your clutch purse and scowl at the face, it’s after two A.M.

 

Sucking cold air in through your nose, you angrily wipe tears off your hot cheeks and head down the first alley you can find. Leaning against the building, you let the wave of tears cascade down your face. Dizziness makes it difficult to remain standing, so you tilt your head back to let it bump the hard structure.

 

Your phone rings loudly, startling you before you turn the sound off. Edward Colt is calling, no doubt looking for you. Ignoring the call, you put the phone away after dialing a cab and head back toward the road. Gathering the anger at being slighted _again_ , you use it to build a fragile shield to harden the hurt inside. The alcohol dulls your senses enough to numb you. Your phone doesn’t stop buzzing, but you continue to ignore it.

 

He made his choice. It’s done. Whatever it had been, it was over before it really started.

 

Saline runs from your jaw to seep into your mouth, a sign that tears are threatening again. _FUCK MEN_ , you scowl, swiping angrily at your cheeks to push the tears away. Your cab arrives several minutes later and you slam the door closed behind you as your phone vibrates endlessly in your purse.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Your cheeks turn bright red in embarrassment when you _finally_  stumble onto the sidewalk of your apartment building. Edward Colt leans against the building, his phone in his hand. He glances up and starts toward you immediately, looking relieved yet angry.

“Jesus Christ! What the fuck happened?,” Edward calls, his keys tinkling as he jogs toward you. There’s still a few people littered around the Projects around you, but your knife is warding them off for now. Edward seems a little too oblivious.

“Look,” you say, grabbing his arm to lean close to his ear, “we can’t do this out here with an audience. This isn’t _Old Gotham_.”

“Will you please talk to me?,” Edward begs, the skin around his green eyes tense with worry.

“You made a choice,” you say quietly, ripping your arm from his hold when he tries to make you stop walking toward the front door.

“What choice? To go to the bathroom?”

“I’m going home,” you reply, unlocking the front door of the building. Motioning him in, he squeezes inside the barely open door and watches you step inside. The elevator is usually broken, but tonight it looks to be working, there’s no sign posted on the door and the doors aren’t perpetually open. Grateful for another small miracle, you punch the up button and lean your forehead against the grimy wall.

 

“How am I supposed to fix this if I don’t understand what happened?,” he whispers, wary of the sounds from the building. There’s people arguing, someone screaming, a baby crying, and loud music - a cacophony of sounds.

“Nothing’s broken, Edward. You just made a choice,” you reply, tiredly. The elevator beeps - a loud jarring noise that causes him to jump. You both step inside, a third person comes into the building - a man you’ve never seen before. He jogs toward the elevator, “hold up!”

 

You press the “Door Open” button and wait for him. He nods a thank you as the elevator doors close and it jolts, jostling the three of you around before the man hits his floor, number eight and you hit five. The doors close, cutting off the noise from the first floor.

 

The knife is a comfortable weight in your hand, keeping both Edward and the stranger further from you than necessary. The alcohol has you a fucking mess - more than normal. You feel sad and angry. Vaguely remember Edward said something about the Boss. Said you were __beautiful__. The memory has you chewing your bottom lip, tears lining the bottom lids before they overflow and leak down your cheeks. Edward’s warm fingers thread through yours.

 

Watching the numbers light, you keep your peripheral vision on the two men.

__

_One._

__

_Two._

__

_Three._

__

_Four._

 

At five, the elevator jolts to a stop and the doors open. You let Edward out first, turning so your knife faces the stranger. The man stays put - the smart choice, remaining inside as you glance up to stare at him for the last few seconds - a kind of predatory warning left unsaid. The elevator heads further up the complex, leaving you with Edward.

 

Ignoring him, you lead the way down the filthy hall. It smells like piss in one particular spot and you scowl, coughing at the stench.

“Fuck this place,” you sigh, a fresh wave of tears leaking from your eyes. Your cheeks burn red in humiliation again. At apartment 546 you raise your knife in your fist, getting ready for anything. Edward steps to the side, eyes wide with surprise. Turning the key, you shove the door open and flick the lights on, making a quick sweep of the apartment while Colt locks all four deadbolts on the door.

 

Paranoia buzzes beneath your skin. Something seems a little off about the Boss leaving you alone for this long, even after his snub. You sniff - not wanting to cry out loud, tired of the snot dripping down your nose. Edward pulls a handkerchief out of his rear pocket and holds it out to you. You take it and wipe at your nose, clenching it in your fist, your knife forgotten in your palm. Noticing the weapon, you fold it closed, clipping it to your boot once more.

 

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” he says quietly, squeezing your hand. Your shoulders sink with the exhale, the anger seeping out of you like evaporating water. He pulls your hand, enveloping you in an embrace that has your tears falling all over again - wetting the front of his shirt.

“Have a seat,” you whisper weakly, moving back and away from him. The old school coffee pot takes up most of the counter space in the equally tiny kitchen, but without the pot you’d go fucking insane. You pull a bag of blueberry coffee grounds from the freezer and drop two scoops into a new filter, sliding the plastic piece back in. Pouring water in through the top, you turn it on and listen to the heating mechanism start to brew the heavenly liquid.

 

The little shithole of a home is an efficiency apartment with less square footage than a studio and barely-enough livable space. It has four hundred square feet, open-floor and is cramped as fuck. The bathroom is the only room with a door and the kitchen is a refrigerator, stove, two cabinets, an oven, and a sink with two feet of counter space, one foot being taken up by the coffee pot. You have a plastic shelving unit squeezed into the corner behind your two-seater plastic table to store food on since the cabinets and single drawer shelve your flatware, pots, and pans.

 

The walls and ceilings are white, the only color in the whole place from the beige, medium-pile rug that grabs onto anything that falls onto it like cilia. Little boogers of fuzz, paper bits, dried leaves, and crumbs litter some of the carpet - showing the high-traffic areas. The meager music posters and plug-in lamps make the apartment seem somewhat lived-in, but otherwise the place is identifiable as low-income housing.

 

The smell of coffee fills the small space. You flop onto the loveseat beside the one and only visitor you’ve ever had. Tugging your boots off, you toss them toward the small T.V. sat by the long living room window.

“He doesn’t deserve you,” Edward says, leaning back to tilt your chin up. His eyes soft as he takes in your tear-stained face and tired red eyes. You laugh bitterly at his words, trying to pull away from his grip on your chin. It feels too much like the Boss’ favorite move for you to tolerate it from anyone else.

“It’s not a fucking **choice**  Edward. Do you think I _want_  this? Do you think I enjoy the abuse? He’s pretty, but he’s broken. He can’t love. He doesn’t _need_ , he only **wants**. He destroys everything he touches and he’s touched me.”

 

He tries to speak, but you pull away, moving back into the kitchen to take out two coffee mugs. You give him the unchipped mug, carefully pouring so as not to waste any coffee. Opening the fridge, you pull the half and half out, checking the date. Nope, expired a month ago. You toss the container into the trash under the sink and sigh, the fridge empty of all else. Pulling the sugar off the refrigerator, you drop three teaspoons into yours.  
”Sugar?” you call.

“No thanks,” he answers, his voice louder than you expected. You squeak in surprise when he reaches around you - arms brushing against your sides to take the mug with black coffee. You stir yours, setting the spoon into the sink before slapping the top back onto the sugar container. Edward places it back onto the refrigerator easily, being taller than you.

 

“I don’t even know you, but I’m not judging you. Not about him. You could have killed me, but you didn’t. You did the opposite - found a way to let me live. I appreciate that.” He runs a nervous hand through his hair, his body turning to lean back against the fridge and give you space. His hair falls toward his forehead - the long strands arched like bent rays of sunlight.

“You’re not like him, you know. You look so lost half the time, like you can’t stand to be alone with the person you think you’ve become, but you’re not him!”

 

A pang hits your heart and you turn to face him, chest heaving with his admission. _Since when does Goldilocks **know**  you without knowing you? _

__

You’re in your shitty apartment with a man you barely know: A man whose life you saved, who works for the Boss, who humored you with his company and said you were _beautiful _.__  A man who is too soft to survive this life of crime he’s chosen.

 

“Edward Colt,” you sigh, voice wobbly with tears. He puts his coffee down on the laminate counter, gently peeling your hands away from your face, holding them.

“Yes?,” he whispers.

“Stop being so fucking perfect,” you laugh, using the hankie to wipe at your nose again. Closing your eyes forces more tears out. You let Edward hold you, leaning his chin on your head like old friends.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Locking the bathroom door, you set your open knife on the tissue box sat on the back of the toilet before stripping to shower. You shampoo, conditioner and scrub your body in record time.

Once you’re clean, you shut the water off and towel-dry. All your habits come back to you as if you’d never left home: wringing out your wet hair, gliding leave-in conditioner in to keep the curls from frizzing, folding your towel over the railing on the glass shower door, spraying cleaner inside before sliding the door most of the way closed.

 

Opening the bathroom door, knife in hand, you listen carefully and smile when Edward’s soft snoring floats to you from the living room. He fell asleep a while ago, but it took you a long time to stop staring at him and get up off the floor where you’d sank to keep some distance from him.

 

Jogging to your closet, you slide the doors open slowly, trying to keep quiet. Grabbing a clean pair of burgundy underwear and matching bra, you slip them over your humid skin. Tugging a pair of black leggings on next, you slip a purple “cold shoulder” dress over your head and pull a pair of black socks on just as a rhythmic knock sounds on the front door. You freeze for a second, glancing at the clock. Five A.M.

 

A silver grill takes up the entire hole, causing you to neutralize your expression, preparing to open the door. _Fuck. Fuck, fuck, FUCK._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been having trouble with my formatting copying over to AO3 (even using Rich Text instead of HTML). I went back through every chapter and re-italicized, bold, or underlined to make sure the formatting shows properly. That seemed to work. I'll continue to do that for future updates. Sorry for any inconvenience that may have caused!
> 
> *EDITS* Added a link to the song that the chapter is titled after.


	15. Kill 4 Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Aubergine is a dark shade of purple. *WARNING* Graphic violence, implied sexual content.

(Chapter title inspired by the [Manson song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WTviW6w_-wI) of the same name.)

****Chapter 15: Kill 4 Me** **

You step back as you swing the door open for Mr. J to enter. He grins at you when he swaggers in, shirtless beneath a long aubergine *****  crocodile duster. His holster sits snug against his torso. A ridiculously thick silver chain swings loosely from his neck, attracting your gaze to his tattooed chest. Your cheeks grow a bit warm from the leftover alcohol still in your system - the Boss making it difficult to focus on the inevitable disaster waiting to happen.

Mr. J runs his tongue along his top row of teeth, studded diamond earrings glinting in the low light as he turns his head to take in your humiliating abode. You lean out the front door to see if anyone has accompanied him, finding no one. Not exactly reassured by that, you close the door.

Turning, you find him moving through your apartment, raising an eyebrow. “Keep it open.”

With a silent sigh, you drop your hand from the deadbolt. Your stomach drops when the Boss’ eyes sweep from the kitchen over to the living room, catching your guest asleep on the couch. He whistles loudly, shooting you a poignant stare.

“This won’t do,” he says, sucking on his teeth in distaste.

“Coffee?” you offer, unsure if his comment has to do with Edward, your apartment, or both. The Boss blocks your entrance to the kitchen - standing in the doorway.

“No. Not staying long and neither are you,” he grins, holding his arms open wide in an invitation. Tilting your head in suspicious curiosity, you stand in front of him, jumping when he slaps his palms against your cheeks, squishing your face all around, cackling with his head tilted back.

His fingers dig into the skin of your cheeks, smooshing your face together in the center. “Smile,” he commands, his mouth open in amusement as you force a smile out between your condensed cheeks. He giggles, a ridiculous high sound that has you smiling more genuinely. He’s quite animated right now, seemingly in a great mood and you don’t want to think about what may (or may not) have happened to get him there.

“Your initiation is today,” he smiles, eyes gleaming with excitement. You swallow hard, forcing yourself not to look at Edward. The snoring has softened from the couch. Colt turns around to face the back of the too-small loveseat.

It’s so strange to see them both in the same place. They compliment each other; Colt’s tanned skin, sculpted body, dirty blond hair and seaside eyes. The Boss’ hard lines, paper-white skin showcasing the black ink as if it’s nature’s way of saying “danger - keep away.” The green undercut and his racy red lips. You smirk as the Boss watches you stare at him. Those light blue eyes calculating - a player deciding his next ten moves to Checkmate.

The Boss’ hands remain on your cheeks, his fingers making uncomfortable red impressions if the clamminess of your skin is anything to go by. His hands drop. Edward hums in his sleep before twitching. The Boss snaps away from you, scowling.

“Get rid of him,” he grimaces, lifting your forgotten coffee off the counter and taking a long sip. He hums his approval, downing the rest of it while you walk toward the couch to rouse your guest.

Relief floods your body as you shake at Edward. He jolts up, his gaze quickly taking in your change of clothes and neat appearance. The Joker slams the empty mug down, drawing Colt’s attention.

Without further delay, Edward stands, lifting his blazer off the carpeted floor. His emerald eyes search at yours as you lead him toward the door. The Boss leaves the kitchen, leaning back against the wall to watch closely.

There’s a weight to this silence. The Boss is looking for gestures, anything that will tell him about the nature of your relationship with Edward Colt. If he wants to know what transpired in the time between when he abandoned you beneath the Sprang and now, all he has to do is _ask_  like any person would.

Your heart flutters in anxiety, all but shoving Edward out the door. “I’ll be in touch,” you say quietly. Edward stares over your shoulder. You don’t need to turn your head to see that he and the Boss are staring each other down. _Dick war, pissing contest, whatever it is, it’s getting old._ Whatever the Boss is looking for, Edward is giving it to him. _Idiot!_

As if he can hear your thoughts, the Boss slams your body against the door, shutting it in Edward’s face at the same time. He grabs your hair - trapping you between the door and his body. Sliding the lock into place, you pull the anger closer to push the pain away.

Forcing Mr. J to pull harder on your hair, his pelvis pins you while his lips graze your neck. He likes experiencing pain or seeing it on someone else - there doesn’t seem to be a preference. _Sadomasochism_. He pulls your head back by your hair, a moaned hiss of pain sounding from you.

“Regard-less of what _Edward Colt_  may **think** , Duckling,” J purrs into your ear, biting the lobe and pulling down with contempt and anger. A sound escapes you - a mix between fear and arousal. “You. Belong. To. _**ME**_. _Understood_?” You nod, his handful of hair moving with the motion of your head.

“Change,” he demands, pulling your dress up and over your head. “Something practical. You’ve got work to do, Darlin’.”

You stumble through the large doorway of your bedroom. Leaving the black leggings on, you quickly sift through your closet to pull out a black, thick-strapped tank top. The Boss leans against the doorway, hands behind his back as he watches you, expression blank.

You glance in his direction, face heating in embarrassment at being watched. Pulling the shirt down, you slide on a black wide-neck long-sleeve t-shirt that hangs off your shoulders.

Walking toward the doorway to get your boots, the Boss’ hand reaches out to hook around your waist, pulling you against him. Your chests bump, your hands raised as if to soften the blow, refraining from touching him at the last second.

“You’re. Learning,” he breathes, kissing you full on the mouth. A startled noise filters from your mouth to his, Mr. J’s red lips smearing lipstick on you. Switching positions to push you against the door frame, he deepens the kiss. He hums once, the sound vibrating your lips, your hands clutching tight at his crocodile duster. Dropping your hands as the Boss moves away, you pant to catch your breath. He heads for the front door, nodding for you to follow.

Darting into the living room, you yank your boots on and jog back to the Boss. He flings the door open, ushering you into the hall just as his phone rings.

“It’s time to make Daddy proud or die trying, Kitten,” he grins, wiping absently at your lips, smearing the red lipstick further. You wipe at it yourself with your wrist while he answers his phone, snarling, “TWO MINUTES” before ending the call and taking your elbow, leading you down the stairs in place of the elevator.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Don Juan nods at you from the driver’s seat of the nondescript SUV after you open the back door to get in. With a start, you realize there’s six more cars just like this one scattered around the street outside your apartment - lights on, engine running.

A surge of adrenaline ignites your veins, the Boss nudging you inside. He slides in next to you. “Consider this . . . A **test** , Kitten. Pass this and you’re on payroll,” he purrs, pulling you into his lap. You spin to face him, settling your knees on either side of the seat to straddle his lap. It’s a power game you both play, he pulls you where he wants you but you change the direction just to prove you have _some_  choice in this, still. He allows it, his body relaxing against the seat.

Mr. J slips his hand beneath both of your shirts, pressing a cool palm against your skin. You shiver at the feel of it, eyelids at half-mast. He watches your face as his hand travels up your stomach to the space between your breasts, wiggling beneath your bra to trace the scarred “J” there. You close your eyes, pressing down against the Boss’ lap, face heating when he groans, groping at you while you grind down against him. _Yes_ , you smile inwardly, _he still wants me_.

“I’ll make you proud, _Daddy_ ,” you smile confidently, a little smirk tilting your lips upward. His eyes track along your face, moving from your eyes to the line of your nose, his finger tracing your cupid’s bow.

 

Déjà vu. _A padded cell, your first face-to-face with the Joker. He was tracing your lips, proposing a deal. A memory of antifreeze hair and plain lips, looking more human in a straightjacket. “My crazy can taste yours, Darlin’, and pretty soon I’ll want to play ,” he’d said. His words made the skin of your spine crawl with anxiety and anticipation. He grinned at you then, the white of teeth and silver of metal before he leaned back and pointed at you as if his hand were a gun._

__

Taking his hand, you manipulate his fingers to mimic a gun, slipping the pretend barrel into your mouth. Gliding your tongue up the underside of his finger, you watch the Boss’ eyes hood with arousal. He purrs - a gravely sound that rumbles in his chest, shoving you to the floor with his ungloved hand as he unzips his pants with the other.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

A large group of men and women move in synchronization to surround you and the Boss on the sidewalk in front of the Gotham City National Bank in Old Gotham; All clad in head-to-toe black. The group consists of fifty seven people - the Joker’s gang.

 

Mr. J is the only spot of color among you, his grin wide and feral as his fingers grip the handle of his 1911 and pull it free of the holster. You keep pace, his gun resting snug in his crooked index finger, arm draped over your shoulder.  

 

A petite woman with a pink fauxhawk stays close, guarding the Boss’ right side, standing beside you. A large man with dark skin to the Boss’ back and another shorter leaner man to his right. Donny remaining close to the Princess, her pink hair making her an easy target. Your eyes scan the faces around you - all calm and neutral, everyone seeming to know their role.

 

All except you.

 

The doors explode in a cascade of glass and metal fragments. Screams from inside fill the air. People in suits and business attire start to run, trying to escape, ducking behind the counter and lunging toward the fire exits. An alarm is ringing somewhere - the sound growing louder as you enter the lobby.

 

The Boss walks calmly into the bank, his boots crunching carelessly over the thresh-hold. He spins you into the room before the bulk of his gang, handing his gun off to you. Feeling an adrenaline spike, you take the custom 1911, arm shaking when you aim it toward the man in a brown suit holding a shotgun, walking toward you.

The bank manager wears a gilded gold name badge, his face a mix of incredulity and anger.

“YOU’RE ALL DEAD! Do you have _ANY IDEA_  who owns this place?” he shouts, a vein in his neck pulsing. Proving to be quite stupid indeed, the man starts to raise the shotgun with a pompous sneer.

 

“Show _Daddy_  how it’s done, baby,” The Boss purrs, sidling up behind you. His body is a warm wall making you feel safe. A gloved hand trails your arm to steady your aim. Pulling on your anger, your mind clears, gripping the handle to remove the safety and _**BAM.**_ You take the egotistical manager out with one shot to the torso. He gasps on the floor, the shotgun falling from his grasp as the Boss walks up to him and pulls the shotgun off the floor.

 

“ **HA, HA, HAAAAAA** ,” the Boss cackles, head tilted back, arms open wide, gun tight in his grip before he sneers down at the dying man and blows his face off with the shotgun. Blood and brain splatter around his boots, littering the floor with the mess. A mist of red settles around the body and the Boss’ coat.

 

Forcing the image from your head for now, to stay alive, to stay focused, your eyes dart to movement. People scream, some crying hysterically at the cold-blooded murder. And _just_  like that, chaos explodes around you - the Joker’s people firing mercilessly at anyone outside the gang, swarming like a threatened hornet’s nest.

 

They move like a SWAT team, perfectly in-sync and without mercy. A smaller group breaks off from the mob and bypasses the running employees to head down a set of stairs.

 

You hold the gun with both hands, turning your body to aim at a woman trying to escape to the fire exit. She runs, her heels making her slip as you open fire and get her in the leg. She screams in pain before you end her misery, shooting her in the chest. She sags to the floor in a growing pool of blood.

 

The Boss snaps his fingers impatiently, Pink Princess grabbing your elbow to lead you toward the waiting green-haired gangster. The Boss hands her the shotgun, taking Princess’ pistol from her fingers. Sirens in the distance are getting louder, signaling the arrival of the GCPD.

 

The Joker’s people switch gears like a well-oiled machine, taking up defensive positions around the thick cubed pillars of marble, spread throughout the lobby.

 

The Boss surveys the damage - bodies of dead and dying people strewn about the ornate building as he grabs the railing and slides down the banister to the basement floor, heading toward the safe.

 

The second team is already down here, working on loading the money into large duffel bags. The bags hefted down an assembly line of people into the back of an armored bank truck, parked in the rear of the building.

 

Sirens scream closer. Gunshots from upstairs signal that the cops have arrived.

 

“Go,” the Boss orders grabbing the last two bags, heading toward the truck. With a glance backward, you marvel at just how fast the entire safe’s been emptied and feel a kind of giddiness about being part of a bank robbery.

 

The scuffling of shoes on the stairs has you spinning around to face the reinforced doorway to the safe room, pistol raised. Princess lifts the shotgun and shoots, causing the cops to scatter and duck for cover.

 

Stepping in front of the Boss from the view of the door, you push at him with one arm to get him closer to the truck faster, laying cover fire with one hand. Your aim sucks, but it’s enough to keep the cops hiding while the Boss gets away.

 

Staying behind, you start to fire with both hands aiming, scattering the small group of cops again as they move try to push forward once more. Princess and two men grab at the metal door on the side and start to shove it closed. Sticking the pistol in the center of your bra to hold it, you shove lean with your whole body against the door, grunting with the effort it takes for the door to close slowly.

 

A large guy with dark skin and a shaved head muscles the bar to lock it in place, effectively sealing you off from the cops. It’s Muscle Sprout, the guy that guarded the Boss’ back.

 

With a grin, Princess yells, “GO, GO, GO!” and you all run to the truck that’s starting to pull away from the open doors of the bank’s rear entrance. The truck doors fling open to reveal the Boss sitting in the back of the truck on a bench, watching. Several people use each other to extend hands out to you. Grabbing onto a warm palm, they pull you up into the truck. Someone grabs at you to keep you planted inside while you reach a hand out and grab Muscle Sprout’s forearm when he lunges toward the truck. It takes several people to pull him in. Princess is last, the doors slamming shut as her toes touch down on the metal floor of the armored car.

 

You pant heavily, breathless with the excitement and the leftover adrenaline surge. Starting to laugh at the insanity of what just took place, you lean forward on the floor and rest your forehead against the cold metal.

 

Some people scoff at your reaction, Princess smiles, Muscle Sprout remaining neutral. The Boss beckons you from his seat with a curl of his finger. His back is straight, feet flat on the floor, knees apart. You crawl toward him in the tight space, planting your hands and knees between people’s feet to get to him. He watches with hooded eyes, his mouth parted, chest rising and falling slowly. He stares at your chest and you realize you’ve left the 1911 in your bra. Lifting it out, you hold the barrel, offering the handle to him. He grins and grabs your chin instead, leaning down to plant a hot kiss on your mouth, tongue delving between your lips to trace your teeth.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The Boss stands at a large wall of windows that overlooks the inside of a waterfront warehouse in Sheldon Park, part of Uptown Gotham. After a moment, he moves to sit at his desk, typing at his laptop without so much as a glance at you. His fingers fly over the keyboard and his mouse clicks now and then.

 

You watch small pairs of people sorting large amounts of money from the heist over rectangular table tops. One person sorts, the other counts and bundles, creating neat piles. Muscle Sprout checks off a list, all of them with black spade tattoos.

 

Others pour over a number of spreadsheets and inventory lists under a brightly lit corner, their necks adorned with the same red diamond you sport. They tag and sort weapons, drugs, and chemicals being unloaded from large shipping containers housed outside the building. Princess compares items on two lists, nodding to Cole before the tall man leaves the building, being watched by a Suit with a black club tattoo.

 

Large metal crates are brought in using several forklifts through an open set of bay doors in the back room of the warehouse. A handful of people in suits monitor all business going on, including keeping an eye on you upstairs in the Boss’ office. They wear Don Juan’s tattoo, a black club.

 

It’s mid-day, the Boss looking tired with dark circles under his eyes, the white looking more red about now. Moving away from the window, you head toward the coffee pot in the back of the Boss’ office. You start to brew a pot of coffee, the smell filtering through the air.

 

The Boss continues to type away, ignoring you.

 

“You look tired, Mr. J.”

 

“Always,” he mutters, closing the laptop with a soft _click_. He stretches his arms up high, rolling his shoulders to crack his spine and then his neck. Rising from the chair, he moves toward you, reaching behind you to grab a coffee mug from the small rack on the table.

 

Once the pot has finished brewing, you reach for his mug, smiling when he lets you take it. Pouring the dark liquid in, you leave enough room for cream, glancing around the office. The Boss reaches into a small refrigerator by your knees and _clunks_  a small container of Half & Half on the counter.

 

“Thank you,” you say quietly, pouring some in the coffee - watching the dark and light swirl together to make beige. Sticking a spoon in the sugar bowl, you dump two teaspoons in and stir, taking the hot side of the mug to offer the Boss the handle.

 

He takes it, his fingertips brushing yours as he grasps it, taking a long sip of the hot liquid. He shows his teeth, sucking air into his mouth to cool it after the burn of hot coffee.

With his eyes closed, the lack of sleep is apparent. His shoulders are less stiff than they normally are, his eyelids dark and reddish against the harsh office florescent lights.

 

You know the look of extreme exhaustion, lived it many nights at work, trying to struggle through the last few hours of work. Swaying into the door of your apartment at the peak of morning to collapse on the bed fully-clothed, too tired to undress before you fall asleep. Insomnia is a side-effect of the medication, of mental illness.

  
The wood floor creaks beneath your boots as you walk toward the office lights and turn them off. The Boss remains in place, eyes closed. Steam rises slowly in little wisps from the mug in his hands. Not wanting to ruin his moment of solace, you remain quiet and still, watching him - your eyes raking down his cheekbones to his semi-jutting chin and the lines of his neck and shoulders.

 

The crocodile duster hangs on a coat rack by the office door. His holster is still on, the straps digging in just a little, making the skin around them red and irritated.

 

You haven’t asked if you’ve made the cut and he hasn’t supplied any information about it. Leaving it be for now, you wonder if this place has a room he can sleep in. Thinking about his well being is starting to make you uncomfortable and your better judgement keeps you from commenting on it.

 

Deciding to take a chance, you walk slowly behind the Boss and rub your fingers in circular motions over his shoulders, starting outward and moving in. He makes a humming sound, his hand resting the coffee mug onto the table. You can’t tell if his eyes are still closed, but he seems to be relaxing. His posture remains the same, his head lolling forward just a little, his breathing louder than it was as if he’s starting to drift.

 

“It’s easier to to do this if you’re laying down, Boss,” you whisper, thumbs pushing against the tension in his muscles. He doesn’t say anything, seeming to be in some kind of trance.

 

Peeking around the corner of the table, you see a long, black plush sofa with a bed pillow casually tossed onto it. You knead the skin and muscle of his arms, working your way down his shoulders to his palms, massaging his very fingers. The Boss’ face is relaxed, his body swaying against you just a little.

 

Slowly, you keep massaging up and across his torso to his other hand, keeping the energy in balance. You lead him toward the couch and coax him to lay down, his eyes popping open when you kneel beside him and continue down his back to push a little harder against the tension there. He groans into the pillow, eyes fluttering closed again, one arm limply hanging off the couch with his knuckles grazing the floor boards.

 

Once the massage is done, the Boss possibly asleep, you remove your boots before walking toward the door, turning back once to watch him snooze on the couch. A smile tugs at your lips.

 

This wouldn’t change anything, but knowing you had given the Joker a massage that put him to sleep . . .well, that was something, wasn’t it?

 

You close the office door before jogging down the stairs. A few people glance toward you then back to their work. Donny walks up to you, raising an eyebrow as you tug your boots back on.

  
”He might be sleeping,” you say, shrugging. “You got a cigarette, Don Juan?” He removes a box that has seen better days from his breast pocket and taps the remaining few so they lean out of the box. Plucking one out slowly, you smile tiredly at him.

 

“Thanks. I owe you a box.” He scoffs, waving the offer away and pulls a light out, igniting the end. It’s one of your absolute favorite smells - a freshly lit cigarette. The scent changes once it’s smoked or lit for too long. You lean in, sucking on the filter to light it and take a _huge_  drag, relaxing immediately as the nicotine fills your lungs.

 

“ _Fuck_ , I missed that,” you sigh, palms beginning to sweat, a sign that a hallucination is imminent. Scrubbing your hand over your face, you flick ash into to the side and head toward a side exit. “I need some air.”

 

Don Juan slowly ascends the stairs, sitting on the top step, blocking anyone from entering the office.

 

Pushing out a side door of the warehouse, your cigarette shakes with your hand. A hot flash sweeps over you and your legs feel weak. Leaning against the side of the metal building, you sink down to sit on the cement stoop overlooking the Bob Kane Sound. The Sound connects to the Gotham Harbor further south and the River up north. This body of water is calmer and less used as far as sea-transportation. The Boss has a few small boats available, but no larger ships sail here.

 

Turning your face to gaze up at the sky, the sun hides behind dark clouds moving slowly along overhead. You flick ash to the side and raise your shaking hand to your mouth, pulling another deep drag from the cigarette. Watching the smoke billow up and away, you close your eyes and try not to picture the Boss all relaxed and human while your hands push and rub his skin.

 

“ _Failure _,”__  the whisper is loud, too loud, filling your head. The sound is feminine and small, like a child. It sounds close, but you don’t see anything with a mouth.

 

Closing your eyes, you pull a hard drag from your cigarette, nostrils flaring as you open your mouth to let it the smoke puff out in a giant cloud.

 

The voice in your mind continues.

 

“ _Failure, failure _.__ ”

 

Lifting your half-used cigarette, the end opens wide into a mouth and laughs, it’s high cackling voice continuing to assault your brain. Shutting your eyes so you can’t see your cigarette talking to you, you sigh and clench your jaw tight.

 

After a while, maybe a half hour, you can hear the sound of footsteps tapping down a set of metal stairs inside. Donny? The Boss?

 

There’s one drag left in it before the filter starts to burn.

 

“ _Gonna kill. Gonna kill you_ ,” the voice says again when you lift the almost-dead cigarette to your lips. The voice is muffled as your lips pull at the last of the tobacco.

 

You jump when the Boss shoves the door open hard enough to hit the wall outside, the hinges old and shot. The door misses you by an inch, making you flinch away from it. A long cylinder of ash falls onto your pants and you swat it away, palms hot and sweaty by now, some of the ash smearing against your skin, making it dirty.

 

“ _FAILURE, FAILURE _,”__  the voice yells, super high now that the cigarette is almost completely burned down. Your hands push under your hair, grasping at your skull, fingers curled in pain from the sounds you’re fighting hard to block. _Thirty minute hallucinations? Jesus christ._

 

“Kitten,” Mr. J says quietly, sidling next to you, one entire side of his body touching yours.

 

“ _GONNA KILL! GONNA KILL YOU _!”__ It sounds like fly man now, high-pitched and hysterical.

 

He slips the cigarette from your fingers and puts it out on the step beside his leg, abruptly stopping the voice. Your eyes snap open and you turn your head to face the Boss, gratitude lining your face.

 

“Welcome to the gang,” he smiles, a genuine twitch of lips without teeth, a sexy _human_  smile with no grill. You grin back, fingers working at your scalp to help you calm down.

 

“Donny will drive you home. Pack,” he says, scratching his fingernails along your neck as he stands to go back inside the warehouse. You can see red beneath some of his nails and shiver at the memory of red mist.

 

Sighing, you stand on wobbly legs and tilt your head back against the building, sweat lining your upper lip and forehead now. Unwilling to entertain if making the cut for the Joker’s gang is an epic success or failure, your shaking hands begin to settle as you step back inside the warehouse.

 

Don Juan spots you, motioning for you to follow him out the front door. “C’mon, kid. Lets get something to eat,” he smiles wryly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The memory flashback (Déjà vu) is from the Prequel (Part 0.5) that I plan on posting once this fic is complete. I have most of the Prequel written already.
> 
> *EDITS* Added a link to the song that the chapter is titled after.


	16. Coming Undone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING* Contains graphic violence and sexual content. NSFW!

(The title of this chapter is inspired by the [KoRn song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yPsqQ13UduQ) of the same name.)

 

**Chapter 16: Coming Undone**

“Jesus Christ,” Don Juan mutters.

“What?,” you ask, a little bristly at the reaction. Everyone acts like living in this shithole is what you want. Like living in the Gotham Projects is a fucking dream come true. You just won the lottery, what are you going to do? Move into Section 8 housing in Gotham City! _Ding, ding ding!_  Do they really think you’d be here if you could afford something better?

“Look. I hate this place as much as the next asshole. I worked at a fucking warehouse. How much do you think they paid me?”

“Hey. Chill, kid. I’m not judgin’. Personally, I think whoever owns this building could use a good lesson in livable conditions.”

“Tell that to the guy that pissed in the hallway,” you scoff, searching for boxes in the back of your closet. Pulling one out, you toss it onto the bed and search for the second one you __know__  is in there. . . Somewhere.

The T.V. blares from the other room. “Hey, Grandpa, lower that shit!,” you call to Donny as he flops down onto the couch with his arm casually draped over the back.

“Sure, make yourself at home,” you sass as you flop the boxes open and tape them with what’s left of your packing roll.

“What are you doing?,” he asks in a _didn’t-I-tell-you-not-to_  tone.

“Packing.”

“Thanks, Einstein. Why?”

You roll your eyes, starting to see why he was just the brawn and the Boss remained the brain. You level him with a hard stare, “the Boss asked me to.”

“You don’t pack. We call a moving company that packs. Hey, take a look at this,” he says, motioning toward the T.V., turning the volume up __higher__.

A reporter sits in a clean newsroom, the glass of the desk gleaming beneath her papers and clasped hands. The camera closes in on her face with a picture of the Boss in the top left corner as she speaks:

_“The Joker made a violent appearance at Gotham City National Bank just before sunrise, killing most of the employees before stealing the entire contents of the bank’s safe. Now the bank ****is****  FDIC insured. Mr. Falcone has yet to release a statement regarding the robbery. Three suspects have been positively identified using video surveillance. The GCPD is warning the public to call the police should any of these perpetrators be spotted as they are considered armed and dangerous. Stay tuned to GCTV as more details unravel.”_

Wanted posters of the Boss, Princess, and _you_  cross the screen briefly before it cuts to commercials. They’ve upped the reward money for each of you, the Boss obviously holding the most weight.

With a sigh, you scrub at your face and stand quickly. “So, how about that moving company? The sooner we get the fuck outta’ Dodge, the better.“

Donny makes a phone call and steps into the kitchen to hear the person on the other end. “Look, you’re gonna want some big guys for this. It’s not about what’s being moved, it’s _where_. Yeah. Thanks,” he says.

If you’re lucky, no one in your building has watched the news yet or at the very least has no balls to do anything about it. If you’re unlucky, well . . .let’s just hope Donny knows how to fight hard and dirty.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Four moving guys arrive in less than thirty minutes after Donny calls. The entire apartment is packed up and being loaded onto the truck within an hour. They even bring your ratty old shit into the new apartment located in Newtown! Talk about an upgrade.

__

_In-fucking-credible what Donny can get accomplished._ How’d he do that shit, anyway? Did they pay off the company to be on-call and quiet? Know the owner well enough to lean on them? Whatever it was, he came through hardcore.

 

Your new apartment building is all clean, glistening windows. One side faces the Gotham River, offering a spectacular view of Amusement Mile’s coastline.

 

Everything about this place screams _new_  and _clean_. Walking in the front door offers a small sunken foyer with elegantly leveled single-steps up toward the main room. The living room itself is as large as your _entire_  last apartment.

 

Straight through you can see the sliding glass doors showcasing the balcony and epic view as you peer through the vertical blinds. Latticework fencing keeps the balcony private and stylish. Tall vertical blinds offer privacy for the large sliding glass doors, casting long rectangles of light up against the walls.

 

A kitchen bar top sits to the left, eliminating the need to get a new dining set. A sleek set of four high-backed stools are mounted to the floor at the granite countertop. There’s a wide rectangle cut into the kitchen wall for easy serving and socializing between the two spaces.

 

The kitchen is a coral and cream color scheme with granite _everything_. New stainless steel appliances scream luxury and many dollar signs. Your mouth drops open as you pull the refrigerator door open to see a fully stocked fridge, wine included. Shaking your head, you pop out of the room to see Donny smirking at your reactions.

 

“This place is fucking insane! Did you see this, Donny? The fucking _fridge_ is stocked!,” you squeal, running into the room to grab at the Suit. He laughs and swats at you, pretending to get some wrinkles out of the sleeve of his jacket though he’s smiling widely

 

“I know, kid. The Boss spares little expense for those willing to do his bidding.”

 

Past the kitchen there’s a full bathroom, office at the end of the hall and a small guest room. Moving through the apartment toward the other end, you gasp at the master bedroom complete with a Jacuzzi tub and crazy complicated shower with built-in spouts all over the place. An electric panel sits inside the stall and you shake your head, feeling like you’ve just entered the Starship Enterprise.

 

The whole place smells clean, like new paint and some kind of sparse air freshener pumped through the air ducts of home goods stores. The best part is there isn’t a single fucking carpet in sight. No shit-brown medium-pile that holds onto scents, stains, and human hair like a begrudged ex-lover.

 

So much natural light seeps in through the windows that you don’t need to turn any lights on yet. It feels like something out of a dream. You grin from ear-to-ear at the space, _so much open space_ , marveling at how quickly your life has turned around.

 

But somehow the Cost of it all tries to creep in, forcing you to head to the bedroom to change so Donny doesn’t catch wind of your guilt conscience.

“Changing clothes,” you call, closing the bedroom door. Your face heats up when you think about how many bad things you’ve done and how much you don’t **deserve**  a place like this. Bad people aren’t supposed to be rewarded, they’re to be punished.

 

Another piece of you - the dark part - keeps bringing up the things you’ve survived. It justifies your new digs after the abuse you’ve endured at your old job - the incident that led to your criminal record and being sent to Arkham. The Boss’ continued sexual and physical abuse. Your mercy with Edward Colt.

 

Pulling your cellphone out, you scroll through the contacts, finding Colt. Adding him as a favorite, you bring up a message window and text him.

 

KITTEN: New place. Tour?

 

You shake your head and yank the long-sleeve shirt off, leaving the thick-strap black tank top on. Slipping out of the leggings, you toss the old clothes into a empty hamper in the closet. Wiggling into a fitted pair of skinny jeans that make your ass look good, you toe on some classic Chucks. This close, the Boss could call you right now and you could be there in less than fifteen minutes depending on where in Uptown he happened to be.

 

Glancing into the full-length mirror built into the door, you spin to the side and frown at your hair and face. Tossing on a quick coat of concealer, powder foundation and blush, you pull your unruly curls into a low ponytail and line your eyes with gunmetal silver, smiling at your reflection.

 

“ _That’s_  how you move, kid,” Donny grins when you come back into view, your phone in one pocket and wallet in the other.

 

“All my old shit is laming the place up,” you mutter, staring at the lopsided loveseat and plastic dining table stuffed into a corner of the foyer.

 

Donny swats at the air, “psh, one payday has that shit covered, kid. C’mon, I’m fuckin’ starvin’ and you look like you could use some food.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The Boss sucks on his teeth as you work him beneath his desk, hidden by the back panel. Your teeth scrape against his hardness while you pull your head back, sucking hard at the tip before swallowing deep.

 

He bites his bottom lip, your tongue pushing hard against the vein on the underside of his erection. You dig your nails into your palms to push just a little at a time past the gag reflex, your throat wanting to close up.

 

On the other side of the desk, you can hear Cole drone on and on about shipping manifests, completely unaware of your presence and impromptu sex act. “If you take a look at Flannegan, he’s been pretty up-front about what the costs would be for the chemicals. He’s even thrown in a few free samples until we get a better handle on the exact amounts we’ll be ordering.”

 

Mr. J sucks a breath in through his nose, slamming his fist against the desk to cover an exhaled groan. Princess hisses, “shut the fuck up, Greaseball. Keep the _brief_  in _briefing_.”

 

Your head bobs on him, leaning back to swallow the spit pooling in your lower jaw to prevent it from making the Boss too wet. You position your mouth over him, breathing on the tip before you take it deeper than before, letting your teeth rub against it. Mr. J subtly reaches down to grab your hair and _pull_ , letting you know he likes this. A **lot**.

 

Princess addresses the Joker directly. “Boss, most things are in order. There’s a few loose ends we need to take care of with Donny’s boys. We’re all set.” The Boss nods and motions for them to shoo with an impatient flick of his hand.

 

As soon as the door closes, the Boss pulls you up by your hair, his mouth seeking yours out hungrily, tongue shoving past your lips to run along your teeth.

 

He unbuttons your pants, yanking them off your legs. You step out of them, leaning down to take him back in your mouth. The Boss’ head falls back against the chair, his breath coming in short pants, sexy little noises filling the room and making you drip on the floor.

 

You climb into his lap, directing his dick into your wetness, moaning when he sinks in. “ _Mm_. God, you’re so good,” he breathes, thrusting up into you, his hands gripping your hips bruisingly hard. You grip his shoulders and start to ride him, his eyes closing, teeth gritting together.

 

“You **like**  making Daddy lose control, don’t you, baby?” he pants, mouth open, eyes glittering with want. He tongues the scarred “J” over your chest and sucks at your stiff nipple, biting the sensitive skin. Lifting your hand, you bite your wrist to keep quiet, but he pulls the hand away, thrusting harder into you to make you shout.

 

You plant your feet against the spined back of the chair that connects the headrest to the base, raising and lowering yourself to continue the pace he’s set, hands braced behind you on the edge of his desk for leverage. His hips stop moving to let you take over. He gasps, a moan beneath his breathing as he grips your tits, squeezing, thumbs brushing over the nipples again and again.

 

Enjoying his tentative control, you rip his shirt open and sink your teeth into his neck, sucking on his pulse point to leave a bruise. He allows it for a few moments, squeezing your hips when you slow the pace to get your pelvis closer to his, taking more of him in. He bottoms out inside you, hitting your cervix. A gutteral groan leaves his throat, head thrown back against the chair, back arching.

 

Power, raw and hot ignites your blood at seeing the Boss so __free__. You gasp at the pain and change the angle of your hips. To keep the friction, the Boss fingers your clit and swallows your moan, his tongue diving into your mouth.

 

Without any notice, the Boss shoves you off him and plants you on his desk. You scramble to get to all fours while he yanks his shirt off, tossing it away like a used cigarette butt. Dropping his pants to his ankles, he steps out of them and pulls your hips toward the edge, penetrating you. You moan, leaning back against him to build a rhythm, tits swinging to and fro.

 

With better leverage, the Joker pistons harder, balls bouncing against your pussy, building the pressure in your body at record speed. A little whine escapes you before a bright white flash explodes behind your eyelids, your body twitching uncontrollably. The walls of your body pulse and squeeze around him.

 

The Boss grunts as he pulls out, spilling over your ass. Warm jets of cum quickly cool to leave your skin cold and feeling filthy with his seed. Sweat dots along your spine and warms the back of your neck where your hair has settled. You swing your hair away from your neck and slip off his desk, falling to your shaking knees, smirking.

 

The Boss grins and collapses, naked, in his chair. You pull your half-drank bottle of water off the edge of his desk and offer it to him. He twists the cap off, taking a long swig before handing the bottle back to you.

 

“Encore,” he smirks, palm splaying against the back of your neck to pull your mouth toward his slowly awakening crotch.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Cole lunges at you, shoving you hard against the wall. Your head slams into the sheet metal, the back of your head hurting and already tender.

“YOU’RE DEAD, BITCH!” he screams. You spit in his face, earning a hard slap. Your growl turns into a scream, your mouth seeking out his hand to bite down viciously, teeth wearing at the skin to clamp down **hard**.

“Fucking _animal_ ,” he shouts in shock, trying to get you off of him. His hand leaks blood from around your teeth.

 

Refusing to let go of his hand even when other people try to pull at you, you swipe at their hands to get them off of your body. For a second everything calms and you let go of his skin, spitting his own blood at him, your mouth and chin smeared with it.

 

Cole screams from the other side of Princess, the petite woman standing between the two of you now - the commotion drawing an enforcer with a club tattoo to the both of you. His skin is so tan it’s red, his long black hair tied in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. A turquoise necklace shows beneath his blazer.

“Get the fuck out,” he scowls. The large man tossing you and Cole outside by the collars.

 

Flicking your knife out of your pants pocket, ready this time, you climb to your feet and face Cole, spitting more of his blood onto the sandy ground.

 

Waves from the Sound crash against the shoreline, the air cold now that the sun has set. Deep red and purple line the horizon, Cole’s hand dripping blood as he seethes at you.

 

“Come and get it,” you grin, your mouth a macabre reminder of what you’re capable of.

 

“ **HA HAAAA** ,” the Boss’ laugh rings out around you, a sound that makes your blood ignite with - equal parts anxiety and excitement.

 

The Boss walks a large circle around you and Cole, Donny close by. The Suit watches nervously, his eyes darting between you, Cole, and the Boss.

 

“In the left corner,” the Boss grins, “a bad bitch with a savage survival instinct nourished by the Projects of Gotham City.” He motions with a flourish to your bloody, grinning visage and you bow dramatically, keeping your eyes on Cole the entire time.

 

“And in the right corner. A man looking to exact revenge for a fallen partner,” the Boss says, a mocking sad face.

 

“ **WHO**  WILL WIN?!” he shouts, raising his arms over and over to draw the rest of his gang outside the warehouse to view the fight. A crowd forms around you and Cole and you swipe at the blood around your mouth with a wrist, leaving your knife arm free. You stalk slowly around your opponent and he, around you.

 

The Boss backs into the crowd, moving to sit atop the hood of an SUV to get a better look. “ _ **Someone’s**_  going to die tonight,” the Joker smirks.

 

Cole lunges toward you, his height a bit of a disadvantage as you block his incoming fist and jab with your knife, getting in a small surface cut to his side.

 

The land makes him angry and he gets sloppy, fueled by the Boss and the gathering crowd, some murmuring, others chanting names - none of them your concern.

 

You watch Cole like a cat watches a mouse, keeping an eye out for weakness. You change the grip on your knife, hilt pushed back against the inside crook and your thumb for stability - reminiscent of when you swiped at him after killing Trix, his partner.

 

“Fuck you,” he spits, pulling a gun from the pocket of his coat. Your eyes widen just for a moment before you move in _quick_  - knife slicing hard and fast at his jugular before he gurgles and leaks crimson all over your front, the gun tumbling from his hand. You wrangle it from his dying grasp, shooting him coldly in the head to speed the process. A fine red mist sprays as his body collapses, leaving little red dots on your face and neck, arms covered in your enemy’s blood.

 

There was no doubt he was going to die tonight. You knew that as surely as you know you won’t survive the Boss - not really.

 

You’re not enough like the Boss, though, to watch anyone suffer.

 

Cole’s blood covers the front of your body, your chest and arms a sheet of red, large splatters ruining the white tips of your Chucks. Chunks of grey leak out of Cole’s half-sunken face.

 

You pant with the adrenaline fading, the Boss standing on the hood of the car to clap loudly, his expression one of pride. His animated movement gets the crowd clapping and cheering as well.

 

The Joker jumps off the hood of the car, the crowd parting as he steps into the center of the man-made ring and raises your bloody hand to name you the victor. Cole’s blood streaks his arm - the golden sleeves long-since rolled up to enjoy the show.

 

He wraps his arm around your neck and kisses you - blood and all. Laughing loudly with his head thrown back, a savage grin of metal and malice lining his laughing face.

 

“This calls for a **celebration**! Break out the _expensive_  shit. Ladies and gentleman, we got ourselves a new _club._ ”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The Boss speeds the Vaydor through Downtown, dialing a number on his phone.  He sets it on your lap to grip the wheel with both hands. The contact says, “Tats.”

 

You tap the “Speaker” icon. “I’m coming,” he says before you tap “End Call.” Laughing when the Boss smacks your leg, he giggles ridiculously as if he’s giddy or high.

 

The last time you visited this tattoo parlor sandwiched between the laundromat and pizzeria feels like a different lifetime now. The blood drying on your skin is sticky, making you feel disgusting and itchy.

 

The bell jingles when the Joker shoves the door open.

 

“You have a sink?” you deadpan, smirking when you raise your blood-covered hands and Rayna’s eyes widen. Her black hair fades to blue instead of the violet from last time. She’s wearing a retro style a-line dress with giant candy skulls all over it. A blue bandanna tops off the ensemble, tied at a tilt on the crown of her head. Her lips are a bright orange-red. Her cat eyeliner has you staring for a minute before you turn down the hall and run the hot water in the bathroom.

 

“You always gonna come in like that?,” she calls after you. You roll your eyes, unamused.

 

Nothing to be done about the shirt since it’s black, the blood showing as darker stains. Your jeans are ruined, Chucks probably are too. Wetting a paper towel and putting some soap onto it, you scrub at the whites of your shoes and get some of the body fluid off, tossing the wads of paper towel into the trash bin before you walk out.

 

You can hear the buzzing of a needle and raise an eyebrow, watching the Boss in the chair, leaning back, eyes closed. He’s getting something on his rib, something hard to see that’ll be covered by his shirt or his arm. His ribs are poking out a bit at the angle he’s laying at, his left arm raised beside his head, the underside of his bicep flexed.

 

The tattoo takes a while. Rayna changes colors twice more. You sit on the wide windowsill ledge, closing your eyes. Rayna hands you a wet rag, knocking it against your hand when you don’t notice. You startle and grab it, a little crazed. She motions to her face and then you. You wipe at your face, removing blood spray and other things, grimacing. Standing to toss it, you start to pace.

 

You’re so tired you could fall asleep right here with the Boss getting tattooed by some smarmy woman that doesn’t know the _half_  of it. The needle is white noise, beckoning you to sleep. And here you are _again_  in this tattoo parlor, having just killed one of the Boss’ people. _Fuck_.

 

“Kitten.”

 

“Boss?”

 

“Sit.”

 

Déjà vu. You hum your assent, plopping back down on the windowsill, hugging your knees to your chest, closing your eyes. The steady buzzing is making you more tired until the Boss’ fingers dig into your raised knee. He’s got one eye open, watching you, his other arm raised above his head as Rayna works, a mask over her mouth, her black nitrile gloves matte in the bright lamp near her head.

He crooks a finger at you and you stand to walk to the side of the chair. “Stop,” the Boss mutters. Rayna does, waiting patiently while the Boss slips further onto his side, making room. He pats the space beside him and you raise an eyebrow, looking at the tiny space. After a second’s hesitation, he yanks you down and leans halfway on top of you to keep the tattoo side up, making himself comfortable and you _uncomfortable_.

You hold his arm, fingertips brushing against the muscle and soft skin on the underside of his bicep. He makes a little sound - a hum, and then his breathing steadies out. _Is he fucking sleeping?_

When Rayna’s done, she leaves you both laying there, glancing down at you, maybe to see if you’re awake.

“I’m upstairs when Boss Man wakes up.” You nod to acknowledge her comment. She locks the front door, turns the sign to “CLOSED,” and flips the lights off. A light flickers on at the end of the hallway - must be the bathroom. Her heels click on the tile and _thunk, thunk, thunk_  up a set of stairs that must lead to her apartment.

Afraid to move, but hella’ uncomfortable, you s-l-o-w-l-y move to face the Boss and take a look at his new ink, the curiosity burning at you. Your stomach drops as you stare at a black cat’s face peering over the curve of his rib - a green right eye and left brown, just like yours.

 _Kitten_. Your heart hammers in your chest at the realization. Your breathing coming fast, too fast, and you try like hell to stop panicking. _What does this mean?_  He isn’t supposed to care! Psychopaths don’t love. Doesn’t a fucking tattoo show some kind of attachment? _Jesus Christ!_  This is not happening. No, he did not get a tattoo of your namesake with your eyes . . .

 **Too much**. This is  too much, you decide, rolling out from beneath him as you fall to the floor. Your heart threatens to beat out of your chest, your palm gripping at your chest as your face meets the cold tile of the tattoo parlor. Your eyes roll into your head, pulse the only thing you can hear before the black spots take over.

“Shhh,” a voice, _his voice_. Warm arms pull at you, fight you into a prone position in his lap.

“Breathe,” he whispers. You gasp over and over, trying. “Slow,” he breathes against your scalp, holding his hand over your heart and yours over his as he takes deep breaths - as if showing you what to do.

Tears blur your vision before you force air in your nose and out your mouth, mimicking his breathing. It takes a little while, but when you’ve calmed down the Boss turns your face to look at him, watching the tears leak down your cheeks.

“Tell me,” you say brokenly, your voice working on the first word but not the last, tears flowing faster down your face. Unsure of what you’re asking, you stare at his face, wondering if he knows. His eyes track over your expression, taking in the lines of strain around your eyes. The perfect cupid’s bow of your upper lip, your little too-long nose and full bottom lip. The little pointed chin that’s perfect for grabbing and he does - grabs it, gently between his thumb and curled index finger to lead your lips to his, a gentle kiss that promises everything neither of you can ever have.

You fight against him after a moment: overwhelmed, suffocated, needing to get away. “No,” you sob, pushing away from him, but he holds tight and keeps kissing you. Deadweight in his arms, you refuse to respond. His touch stays light and gentle and you can’t _stand_  it, this fake fucking caring, this false sense of security that he’s filling you with and that fucking **tattoo**!

The tattoo that has pushed you over the edge of what little sanity you had left. You sit up and bite his bottom lip, pulling your anger and rage close against your heart like a suit of armor. You wrap yourself in it and your body around him, kissing him hard and hungry until he’s groaning into your mouth, his dick stiffening against the front of his pants beneath your ass.

“You don’t _get_  to care about me. Do you hear me? You don’t fucking deserve me,” you cry against him, tears wetting your lips as he touches the sides of your face. His touch is so fucking gentle you sob, trying to push your mouth closed and lips together, a little bubble of spit forming between them. His lips are parted and chest heaving as he pants: angry, aroused, raw and something else you don’t recognize and it’s clawing at you, killing you slowly.

And then you can see it. The true _nature_  of him - the creator and destroyer. Not an _idea_  but a _force of nature_  that kills and creates. You see it as plain as day and it makes you cry harder against him, your face soaking his chest and the ripped golden dress shirt that costs more than a month’s rent. You curl in on yourself with the sobs and fall apart in his lap, the Boss’ shaking hands making you die inside all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *EDITS* Minor grammatical shit. Added a link to the song that the chapter is titled after.


	17. Weigh Me Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following symbols mean the passage of time: ♣♣♣♣. An asterisk (*) symbol denotes a reference to the Prequel (Part 0.5). Added song links to chapters whose titles were inspired by songs, specifically to Chapters: 9 and 11-17. (Future updates will include links.) 
> 
> *WARNING* Contains drug use, abuse, and sexual situations. NSFW! (Also Contains Edward Colt fluff.)

(Chapter title inspired by the [Lorn song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UEBIsUsvheA&list=PLg_UttR4w37nxe1_-6EbFLyLx2g9SK6am) of the same name.)

 

**Chapter 17: Weigh Me Down**

Mr. J’s fingertips drive through the hairline of your forehead, pushing wild curls out of your face. With your eyes red from crying, tears dry on your cheeks leaving cold blotches of skin.

 

He’s still being gentle and you don’t understand why. Grabbing his hand, you fist his fingers in your hair, but he digs them down to the scalp without pulling - refusing to be rough, manipulated, or both.

 

“Boss,” you whisper, fingertips following his hand in your hair, tracing the sensitive underside of his arm: wrist, forearm, elbow, bicep. He doesn’t say anything, just stares with his mouth parted as goosebumps sprout where you touch his skin.

 

You grab his chin with your thumb and index finger, jaw trembling - the moment fragile like seashells in your palm. It feels as if you’re holding the entirety of the ocean, staring into those sapphire eyes. A shiver works its way up your spine - the seconds before the tidal wave (called Mr. J) crashes over you to pull you under.

 

Fresh tears line your lower lids. You blink after a moment, spilling them over onto your cheeks. He is so close to you his breath makes the skin of your nose and mouth feel humid.

 

But then, the Crown Prince of Crime - Master of Mayhem and Manipulation ruins it.

 

“There’s nothin’ wrong with you, Kitten,” he says, a whisper in the quiet room. You chew your bottom lip to keep from sobbing, anger spreading through your veins like necrosis.

 

You look away. He tilts your head, fingers running along your jaw before he kisses you softly once, twice, recapturing your attention.

 

“You are. Exactly. What. I. _Want_ ,” he continues, thumbs tracing your cheekbones back toward your hairline. There’s something in the way he says it - something _missing from that would-be confession._

 

 _No _,__  you think bitterly, _I am what you’ve created._

 

“What did I say. . . after the first time I _**fucked**_  you, Kitten?,” he asks eagerly, his fingers kneading into the skin of your face and neck in anticipation of the answer, his breathing coming faster.

 

He knows _just_  how to transform every moment to own the space around him and suck you in to the vacuum it creates until you are nothing but his intentions. You close your eyes to block him out, thinking back to that past life after your very first face-to-face with the Boss.

 

“Emergency exit ***** ,” you whisper, shaking your head at him - eyes heavy with sadness as tears slip downdowndown your nose and drop onto your lips. He doesn’t acknowledge your sadness, doesn’t seem to notice. What he said that night gave more of himself away than you’re sure he meant to. *****

 

“You,” he says, surging toward you like high tide, eyes drowning you in their cyan waves.

“Are,” he sighs, fingertips splaying across the sides of your face.

“Perfect,” he breathes, laying you back on the cold tiles of the tattoo parlor floor with his palm holding you down. He hovers his lips over yours, his lipstick all but smudged off. You reach up and swipe the last of it away with a flick of your thumb. He knocks your hand away, absently, as if swatting at a bug.

 

 ***** From the moment he entered your room in the Asylum, you’d liked his naked lips. It made him look more normal, average, human. Un-colored lips make him look _more_  dangerous than the red-lipped psychopath from the papers. The dangerous gleam is easier to miss without the scarlet grin. 

 

”No,” you say, trying to sit up. He pushes you back down, his palm staying on the center of your chest. 

 

“I will fight for you, kill for you, fuck you, suck you, be manipulated and _created_  by you, Boss.” Your expression is neutral as you speak.

 

He stares back, his body tensing. Waiting.

 

“But I will _never_  love you. _ _”__

__

His jaw tightens, lip curling at the corner in a silent snarl, his fingers raking into claws to grab painfully hard at your chest.

__

“And _**YOU** _,” -__ you spit viciously, straining up toward his face - “can never _**MAKE**_   _ **ME**_!” You scream the last two words so loudly your ears ring, face molten with rage. Your body shakes beneath his single-handed hold, heart pounding in your ears. And so you wear your suit of Pain-maille armor.

 

He snarls down at you, all teeth and metal at your defiance; The sand of the fragile moment superheated with rage, turning it into fractured glass.

 

He would take many things _from_  you, do so many things to you, but he couldn’t force you to love him. You savor the _only_  thing you can proudly hold out of his reach: A reminder that while he’s good at molding people to his will, they still have their own.

 

And that fucking tattoo - just another way for him to control your thoughts. _But the way his hands shook, the moment was too beaten and raw _. . .__ That was something else entirely _ _.__ You push the thought away, unwilling to think about it right now.

 

You’re too angry to give much of a shit about anything and he’s about to take his anger out on you, anyway. On cue, Mr. J grabs your neck and lifts you easily, your breathing coming in gasps as he chokes you.

 

Fluidly, he rocks to his knees and stands, pulling you up to your feet by your neck to throw you hard into the chair. Raking a hand through his own hair, it falls on either side and bobs as he paces. Ripping his phone out of his pocket, he calls Rayna.

 

“ _NOW_ ,” he shouts, yanking a wad of cash out of his wallet before turning on you - eyes wide and wild. You expect a beating, opening your eyes when it doesn’t come.

 

Rayna comes back down in a hurry - her entrance quiet now that her feet are bare. The Boss wastes no time, “The diamond will be a deuce - no number, two skulls. Add a club.” He tosses the wad of money from his pocket onto the counter and leaves the shop - bells jingling.

 

Rayna watches him go, unsure of what’s happened, confusion wrinkling her eyebrows as she turns to you. You stare back at her, shaking your head. The sound of the Vaydor roars to life outside. The squeal of tires signals that he’s left you for the third time.

 

Pulling your hair behind your neck, you wince at the new set of bruises. They perfectly match the Boss’ fingertips and ring around your throat like a cheap necklace. Yes, you’d gotten him **quite**  angry. The ass-kicking would ensue at some point, of that you had no doubt. _Curious_ that he was postponing it.

 

Rayna pulls on a thin paper face mask and a pair of black nitrile gloves. She motions to the chair, readying the needles. The bright light _clicks_  on as she turns the knob on its stem - swiveling the lamp toward the chair.

“I heard you scream from upstairs,” she says, muffled behind her mask. Her tone attempts to remain neutral but hedges toward anxious.

“And?”

“Why make him angry?”

“Don’t worry about it,” you mutter, reminding yourself that she _does_  have a needle at your neck.

“It just seems counterproductive,” she continues. You sit up and lean away from her, turning your body to face her full-on.

“Lets get something straightened out, yeah? I don’t work for you. I’m not going to answer your questions,” your tone closing the topic off from further discussion.

“Fair enough,” she says, acting nonchalant as the buzzing fills the shop once again.

 

Rayna turns the single red diamond into the vertical edge of a deuce playing card with two skulls in place of a number. A club is added, the unfinished start of a new card. A glance in the mirror and you nod, stepping out of the shop, the bells tinkling above you.

 

You can hear the lock clicking into place before you lean against the front of the cinder-block building. Wishing now more than ever for a pack of cigarettes, you lean forward to glance at the pizza place. The lights are off. _Dammit_. When was the last time you even ate?

 

Tilting your head back to look at the backlit clouds in the darkening sky - little dots of stars are visible her and there. Pulling your phone out of your pocket, you smile at the notification on the lock screen.

 

_COLT: When r u free?_

 

You slide the notification to the right and go into the info you have for him, tapping his cell number. It rings several times before someone answers.

 

“Hey!,” you say, unable to keep the smile from your voice, more than relieved to hear his.

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

****

He’s wearing a viridian button-down with the sleeves neatly rolled up on his forearms when he walks into the little diner. A sand-colored blazer hangs over one of his shoulders. His matching pants adorn his skinny legs. Edward looks like a preppy little shit, walking in like that.

 

“You alright?,” he asks, eyeing you as he gets closer.

“Sure,” you smile, cigarette smoke crawling up the air between you.

“You allowed to smoke in here?,” he smirks, sliding into the bench opposite you. You ignore the little jab in chest - having hoped he’d sit beside you again. His scent wafts over to you as if he’s just showered or put cologne on. He smells good, like sandalwood and something else you can’t put your finger on.

 

“Doesn’t matter,” you say, sticking the filter between your lips - eyes closing in bliss as you inhale. You tilt your chin up to blow the smoke in a steady stream away from Goldilocks’ face. When your green and brown eyes open once again, Colt forces a smile. It’s strained, his eyes trying to tell you something that you can’t comprehend, not yet.

 

“Why did you come?,” you ask, chewing the inside of your cheek. The Boss has fucked you up more than you can comprehend tonight - your emotions a building storm.

“Don’t take this wrong, Honey, but you’re a _lot_  to process,” he says, hand running through his hair, mussing the gel and making a strand fall toward his face. He’s had the sides and back shaved down, the top long and slicked back. It looks nice. Sexy, even. The dirty blond fits his tan flesh, the green eyes popping against anything he wears. He’s growing a little goatee on the bottom of his chin. It looks cute, makes him look more distinguished and less like a pretty boy trying to make the criminal cut.

“I can’t take it wrong if I don’t know how to take it _at all_. Please don’t call me Honey.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Wait a minute, you get to call me _Goldilocks_ , but I can’t call you _Honey_?”

“That’s right,” you smile, offering your cigarette to him. He sighs, back hitting the booth and nabs the tobacco stick from your hand, taking a hearty breath of nicotine - a practiced smoker.

“Fuck it, you said ‘please,’” he says cheekily, winking at you. “The other thing - It’s hard to explain,” he says, pushing his lips together as if trying to think of another way to say it. A cloud of smoke wafts out as he speaks. You watch it disperse between you.

The waiter drops by and pauses with his pen at the top of his pad, staring blankly at the two of you. “There’s no smoking in here.”

You ignore the waiter’s comment like an asshole. “I’ll take coffee and a short stack of pancakes. What kind of fruit do you have?”

The waiter lists off a handful of fruit types and you run your tongue along your teeth, thinking it over. “Fresh?” The man shakes his head and you wave it off. “No fruit, then. You?”

Edward clasps his hands in front of himself,“Coffee and a veggie omelette.” You scoff and then full out laugh at him, leaning your head back against the booth.

“That’s why you’re so fuckin’ skinny,” you mumble, a fit of giggles overtaking you. He tries to fight the smile blooming on his lips, curling his finger to beckon you closer. When you bite your lip, smiling, but don’t move, he waves the burning cigarette around as if he’s holding it hostage.

With a grin, you pull the pack out and tap a second one between your fingers, instead.

“Fucking _cheater_ ,” he scoffs, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth as he stands to lay the blazer over the bench he previously occupied. You raise an eyebrow and watch him move toward your booth, motioning with his hand for you to scoot over.

With a grin, you scoot closer to the window. He sits beside you, the very edge of his leg touching yours. You snatch the original cigarette back just as he snatches the new one. You smirk at each other before he chuckles and you shakes your head. “Fucking scary, Colt. We’re too alike sometimes.”

“ _That_  is terrifying. Let us speak no further of it.”

“So, why’d you come back?” 

He licks his bottom lip, turning his face to look at you. Sticking the unlit cigarette between his lips, he stares, waiting patiently. You lean toward him, middle and index fingers steadying the cig as you lean the tip of yours against his. He inhales deep, his thin cheeks sucking in to display his bony cheeks and strong jaw. The end of his new cigarette lights. Sucking in a long drag, he opens his mouth, letting a perfect little “o” of smoke out before the rest rushes out in a messy fog.

Edward glances at you and presses his lips together, swiping his hand down his face. He looks as tired as you feel - his eyes dimmer than when you last saw him. “To be honest, I don’t fuckin’ know why I came. This is never going to end well - the personal shit. We’re going to war soon,” he shakes his head at the thoughts swirling around his golden head. You picture him with a halo of dandelions, smiling at the thought.

 

“I guess I just figure: You’re interested, I’m interested, lets see what happens.” He slips his hand through his hair again, a nervous gesture that pulls your eyes to his face.

“New tattoo?,” he asks, changing the topic as he eyes your neck, pressing the edge of his thumb against your chin to tilt your face up and to the side. You smile at the gesture and nip at his finger, laughing aloud when he yanks his hand away, muttering a curse. “Feisty little shit, aren’t you?,” he winks.

“Yeah,” you say distractedly. “Why are you nervous?”

“Seriously? You’re a little scary. _All_  the time. But . . .it’s kind of hot?,” he says, eyebrows furrowed as if the answer sounds stupid aloud.

Your eyes glint at him and a smirk lines your lips as he leans toward you, elbow bumping down against the table. You can feel the jolt through the cheap pressed wood - the plastic trim painted to look like chrome.

You mimic his posture, your stained black tank top and blood-splattered jeans doing nothing to scare this man away. You grab his green and gold tie and gently pull him toward you, breathing his scent in deep when his eyes lower to look at your mouth.

“You’re too nice for this life, Goldilocks,” you breathe, an exhale of sound.

“And why would you care about that, J.R.?,” he asks, tilting his head before he grasps the tattoo-free side of your neck and leans in first. His lips move expertly- sensual and purposeful. You suck a breath in through your nose and deepen it, nipping at his lower lip. He sighs against your mouth and leans away.

“J.R.?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“In time,” he smiles secretively, the gears in your head whirring with all the different words that start with J and R.

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

You slide your keys out of your pocket and unlock the door. Edward whistles behind you, making you smile.

“Nice place,” he says as you show him around. “Bank job’s must pay well, huh?” You ignore the sass, a little embarrassed about him bringing it up. _Yeah, that happened, didn’t it?_

Hanging his blazer on the coat hanger mounted to the wall by the front door, you turn to lock the deadbolt. Giving him the grand tour, you show off the new, deep-beige suede sectional in the living room. A large, 55” 4K T.V. is mounted to the wall across from it with a modern black glass entertainment center housing the cable box, Blue-Ray player, and a few movies you have yet to watch.

The full bathroom has an aquamarine and earth-brown color scheme. A complete bathroom set including brings the room together. The aqua hand and bath towels have a higher thread counts than any clothes you’ve ever owned, combined. They’re so soft, you’re afraid to wash them and make them crunchy with the cheap detergent you have.

The office has been spruced up with a small laptop computer charging on a little glass desk, similar to the Boss’ Amusement Mile bedroom. A rolling chair is pushed up against the desk, a tall black bookshelf standing against the side wall.

The guest bedroom has a full size bed with an expensively thick mattress and excessive amount of decorative pillows. The teal and white comforter swirls in an intricate design. A tan dresser stands opposite the bed, pushed up against the wall. Several music-themed paintings hang to make the room appear more cozy - a single bedside lamp on one of the two small tables on either side of the bed.

Last, but not least, you show Edward the master bedroom with the coral and white bedspread stretching wide over the California _King_  sized bed, a large walk-in closet on the left and the doorway to the attached bathroom on the right.

 

The room is light and airy with a set of heavy cream curtains along the wall of windows to maintain privacy and keep the early morning light out. The blinds on the smaller window are open, showing the view of Amusement Mile’s carnival lights several miles away along the Gotham River shoreline. 

 

Donny was right after all, one good job and _bam_. Gotham National cash poured forth like foaming beer.

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

You emerge from the bedroom after a quick shower in a pair of pink sweatpants, the elastic legs hugging your ankles. The gray tank top is already wet in the back from your hair hanging in long waves almost to your waist. With no socks or shoes you pad into the kitchen.

 

The recessed lighting is off, the apartment is dark - the T.V. screen the only light. Plopping down next to your guest, you hand him a glass of wine and swirl your glass of whiskey on the rocks. The ice clinks around the glass, cooling the skin of your fingers.

 

“Thanks,” he smiles, a little quirk of lips that makes his goatee twitch. You try to ignore that he’s taking his viridian button-down off and hanging it neatly over the arm of the sofa. He’s wearing a thin white “beater” tank top showing his tanned skin beneath. His nipples are pebbled against the fabric. Dragging your gaze away from him, you also ignore his quirked eyebrow after he’s caught you checking him out.

 

“So, now what?” You ask, trying to divert his attention.

“I have an idea,” he says, sitting up to put his glass on the coffee table. Edward sits up and motions with his hand for you to as well. You watch as he removes his wallet from the back pocket of his pants. He plucks a small ziplock bag from inside, the bottom filled with a fine white powder. _Coke? Really?_  You hadn’t pinned him for the type.

 

He moves to sit on the floor, tapping the bag to make two thin lines on the glass coffee table. Sliding a credit card out, he thins the lines out, making them thick in the center. Edward pats the space beside him, all forest eyes and a contented smile. You move to sit on the floor next to him, the outside of your right your leg pressed up against his left.

 

Holding one nostril closed, he leans his head down - dirty blond hair falling into his eyes and against his cheeks as he snorts it. Immediately, his head leans back and he makes a sensual sound, his body sagging against the couch, as if in rapture.

 

“ _Yesss_ ” he whispers, breathing hard, his eyes popping open to stare at you. His pupils are _huge_ , swallowing most of the green. He struggles to sit all the way up, clumsily pulling on your tank top to get you closer. You sit between his legs. He leaves them splayed open, just his thighs touching you with his shins brush the legs of the coffee table.

 

Edward gathers your hair and pulls it back, the feeling gentle and rather nice. Your wet hair drips on his arm and he gasps, squirming beneath you a little as the water slides down his forearm. You glance back at him and he smiles like a sated cat, licking his bottom lip. The look is purely sexual, turning you on.

 

Averting your eyes to the white line of cocaine on your table, you push your index finger against your left nostril and inhale deeply along the length of powder. Edward holds your hair behind you as you go boneless, feeling the drug’s effects _immediately _.__ It’s like your nerves are on overdrive, every feeling and sense quadrupled. His thighs pushing against you is making your body hot - little shocks of electricity gathering in between your legs, combining with the heat from the alcohol. Your nipples harden, the feeling of them pushing against your bra driving you wild in seconds.

 

Your eyes widen - the dim lighting making the shadows look huge and looming, the light from the T.V. reflecting off of Edward’s white tank top. The wet back of your shirt sticks to your body, a strong shiver rippling through you.

 

Edward’s fingertips brush your neck, palm splaying to lead down the back of your neck to your shoulder. The skin-to-skin is making you crazy, your body writhing a little, pushing against him more. He gasps at the contact, lips meeting your neck before he bites - a vicious little hickey that will surely leave a bruise.

 

You moan at the feeling and go limp, gasping a yelp when Edward’s fingertips slide up the back of your arms - toward your armpits and down your sides. His skin gets caught on the wet fabric of your shirt and it pulls a little. The feeling is weird, like a thousand tiny tongues against your skin and you turn in his lap, moving his legs so you can straddle him properly.

 

“Hi,” he grins, pulling your arms around him. He leans toward your mouth and kisses you _real_ slow. His lips barely move against yours, driving you absolutely _nuts_ , your body pushing against his.

 

“You like control,” he whispers against your lips. He stands and pulls at your hand, the cold floor making you squeal as it seeps into your feet, making you dart around a little - the cold intense against your hot skin. Edward laughs, a deep sound that carries in the open space, making you smile and turn to him. You hold the sides of his face and kiss his cheek, chin, tonguing the corner of his mouth. He groans, pulling you into a kiss and shoves you up against the kitchen wall, reaching toward the refrigerator. You stop kissing him to laugh, eyeing his arm.

“What are you doing?”

“You’ll see. It’s time for you to let go a little, Darlin’,” he says mischievously. He reaches into the freezer and pulls an ice cube out, slowly running it along your jaw and down your neck.

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

You lay flat on your gigantic bed, panting with euphoria, eyes fluttering. Head spinning with feeling as the cold shock of the ice cube runs down your shoulder to your arm. You shiver hard, goosebumps sprouting all over. Edward trails little open-mouthed kisses along the cool skin, laving it with his tongue to warm it afterward.

 

Your body already feels like it’s going to explode. The coke is doing you in, so much, _too much_ , and you fight the urge to pounce on him as he worships the skin he can access without removing your clothes.

 

The coolness of the blankets feels good against your overheated skin and fucks with your head. You’re suddenly not sure if you’re sitting up or laying down.

 

“We won’t fuck yet.” Edward Colt says, “But we can still have fun,” he smiles lazily, emerald eyes hooded and glinting with mischief. He crawls up your prone body, kissing your mouth. It’s as if your own saliva is a lubricant, making your tongue sensitive and your body writhe beneath him. You feel like sex made flesh and blood, moaning at his tongue delving deep. His hips push down against you, his arousal obvious and hot beneath the restraint of his slacks.

 

Wrapping your body up and around him, his hips flatten you against the bed. Relieving you of control, Edward pins your wrists down. You wriggle around, arching your back, mind reeling with the drug and the sensations, eyelids fluttering. All these feelings are too much - you might combust into a million pieces just from __this__. You shudder beneath him and Edward leans back to stare at you, his mouth ajar, chest gasping for air.

 

“ _ _Damn__ ,” he sighs, kissing a line down your body.

 

“What?,” you pant, wanting to pull your clothes off and relieve your body of the offending fabric making you _too hot_  and uncomfortable.

 

“I wanna see you fall apart,” his voice a promise in the dark of the room as he slips his fingertips in the waistband of your pants, sliding them down slowly. Edward watches as he undresses you, hooded eyes tracking along your underwear to make out the shape of your body beneath. With the front of his pants tented, he slips his hand in to readjust himself.

 

Realizing you’re half naked in front of Edward Colt, your eyes widen just as he bites your ankle. A half-moan-half-squeal escapes you, your body jolting against the bed. He laughs, kissing and sucking his way up your legs toward your hips.

 

“There’s always a choice,” he reassures, kissing your wet pussy right over your underwear. He hums, tongue licking a slow line up the already-present wet spot. Arching your back, your nails clutch the comforter, eyes wide with shock as the air is swooped out of your lungs.

 

Lifting his arms to slide his tank top off. His eyes rake down your body. “Yes,” he whispers, “definitely hot.” Edward hooks his fingers into the hem of your underwear and tugs them down inch-by-inch. His lips and teeth work the new skin it reveals until you’re half naked beneath him.

 

The way he’s staring at you makes you squirm a little until his fingers push up your legs, his eyes bright with want. He rests your feet on his shoulders, tongue pressing eagerly against you. A thousand nerve endings explode with feeling when his tongue pushes straight into you and prods at your clit - his moan vibrating against your center. Your scream fills the room before the suction pushes you over the edge.

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

Edward Colt might have looked like a preppy little shit, but he sure knew his way around a puss. You find yourself laughing out loud in the shower at the thought.

 _Speak the Devil’s name and He shall appear._ Goldilocks pops his head in.

 

“Fancy some company?”

 

You smile, “Sure.” Your nipples stiffen at the idea of seeing him naked again as you raise the glob of shampoo to your head and lather the mop of hair on your head, massaging your scalp.

 

He was true to his word last night, no sex. It was more a drug-addled exploration of bodies and orgasm tallies until you both lost track and fell asleep with your feet in each others faces.

 

You glance up at a semi-hairy tanned chest with curly golden hair approaching when Edward slips into the shower in front of you. The stall is rather large, so you both fit quite comfortably with room to spare.

 

He raises his arms and runs his hands into the water above your head, stepping closer. His green eyes remain on your face for the first few moments as if he’s trying to pass some kind of test.

 

“You look good, wet,” he grins, running his hands from your shoulders, down to your hips. Your own hands follow the water down his body, smirking when he bites his lip at your casual fondling. Stepping back into the hot water, you close your eyes and tilt your head back, rinsing the shampoo from your hair.

 

Edward’s fingers shake as he touches the scar. Having forgot all about that fucking mark, your eyes pop open and you stare at him, unnerved by the sad expression he pins you with.

 

“This scar isn’t that old,” he says quietly. He must’ve caught the wild look in your eyes - his arms encircling your waist.

 

Shame barrels through you, feeling like a punch to the gut. Your hands move to cover the scar, your face heating with humiliation. Tears threatening to leak down your face, cheeks hot as you turn your face away from him, uncomfortable now.

 

“Hey,” he says softly, immediately noticing the change. He pulls you into his arms, carefully stroking a finger against your spine. The feeling of him touching you is too much and you move away - that storm ready to erupt inside of you.

 

“Talk to me,” he says quietly.

 

“And say what?,” you say defensively, moving to leave the shower.

 

Edward stops you by holding his hands up, leaning his back against the cool tile, water cascading down his body. His pelvic bones protrude - your eyes keep trying to stare, but you push the lust away to focus on the pain throbbing in your chest instead of the heat between your legs.

 

Pointing to the bruises on your neck, you say, “this is what happened last night when I screamed at him. I told him he could never make me love him. He didn’t like that.” You laugh as tears overflow your eyes and leak down your face, getting lost in the shower stream. “The sad part is he hasn’t even __gotten__  me for that yet. That is coming, I’m sure.” Sniffling to pull the snot back into your nose, you move closer to Edward and lean your forehead against his shoulder. His arms are a comfort you don’t deserve.

 

“You don’t have to stay,” you say quietly, almost hoping he’ll go and save you both from this conversation.

 

“Do you want me to?”

 

“It’s your choice.”

 

“I can understand. Your Boss . . . he’s something else. But you’ve proven multiple times that you’re not helpless against him. He’s got buttons like anyone else. You seem to know how to push at least one of them,” he smiles. You smirk and shrug, sniffling again.

 

“You have nothing to be ashamed of. I think you’re beautiful.” Your eyes dart to him and you turn to _really_  look at him. His face is open and honest. His eyes track along your face before he grasps your cheeks and leans in, stopping just before your lips meet. He lets you choose.  

 

“Now you’re just sucking up,” you smile, closing the distance. Something in your chest starts to leak - a slow ebbing that floods your chest. It washes away the pain and starts to drown you from the inside-out, a terrifying and fragile tide.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's far too much fucking smirking going on in this chapter. I'm tired of rewriting and reading it, so I'm posting this shit anyway. Also, my cat's a bitch!


	18. I Don’t Like the Drugs, But the Drugs Like Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING* Drug use, explicit sexual content, and murder. NSFW!

(Chapter title inspired by the [Manson song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J8N6qMtQe5I)of the same name. The Flapper-style bodysuit can be seen [here](https://imgur.com/FJS0HUu).)

**Chapter 18: I Don’t Like the Drugs, But the Drugs Like Me**

The Red Light is the largest, most exclusive strip club in Gotham City. Bass-swollen music pounds through the club while mostly-nude women writhe against poles or with each other for the viewing pleasure of paying clientele. Three stages at different heights are lit with red, pink, and purple lights. Topless waitresses in red stilettos strut between patrons, their glistening bodies on display like well-oiled trophies.

 

You stand behind the Boss, legs shoulder-width apart in the most professional stance your current attire allows. Men and women dressed-to-impress move in and out of the V.I.P. area to propose or close out business deals with the Boss. Don Juan and Jonah - the Native American with the turquoise necklace - block the stairs to search anyone seeking an audience.

 

You feel over and under-dressed at the same time: Donny and Jonah in their iconic suits, the Boss decked out in his tux. Then there’s you, in some Prohibition-era entertainer costume the _Boss_  chose. The bodysuit fits your body like J’s nitrile gloves, glittering like a moonlit ocean. The material is forever sparkling even in the strip club’s low lighting. You feel out of place with the proudly perfect bodies surrounding you. They’re all on display, in constant motion in your periphery. It’s bad enough you feel like you’re wearing a bathing suit in public.

 

The Joker lounges comfortably in a booth with the table pushed further away to accommodate his pretty human jewelry. Two women clad head-to-toe in gold perch upon each of his knees. Their painted skin shimmers as they stare blankly ahead. Silk dresses hang over their pert nipples - their small breasts on display in the fabric hanging over their skin like a solid waterfall. With a glance from the Boss, the women turn, their mouths seeking hungrily at each other while he watches, their hands gliding up each others’ limbs.

 

You repress your disgust and slowly suck air in through your nose to keep your cool. The heat of so many bodies packed in close rolls against you like the blower of a furnace. This fucking place makes your skin crawl. With just your heels touching the floor, you feel like it’s time for another shower already.

 

A blond with fake tits makes her way through the two fellow Clubs guarding the stairs, a tray in her hand. You grimace at Donny and Jonah for letting her through as you step forward, halting her progress with your hand resting on the grip of your Browning High Power Mark III snug inside your custom shoulder holster. The blond extends the tray behind you, sneering in noncompliance. Simultaneously, you firmly push the tray away and pull your gun, motioning her back toward the stairs with the muzzle. The Boss makes no move toward the drinks she offers, so she saunters away.

 

“Good girl,” he grins behind you, reaching between the Golden Girls to smack your ass hard, teasingly. Your butt stings as you turn on your heel to take up a better strategic position closer to the stairs, at J’s right side.

 

The Boss takes advantage of your new position, his fingers caressing the curve of your ass where the bodysuit ends. The beaded skirt sways against your legs at the movement as you bite back a scowl. His touching dashes your cheeks pink, the heat compounding with the countless bodies writhing, grinding, and swaying around you just outside the V.I.P. section.

 

An unremarkable young man in a red suit approaches the stairs, his brown hair combed back like some kind of TV mobster. His wiry mustache is thin and rather sad. A beautiful Latina woman trails behind him, her lithe body on display in a sequined red midriff dress with fringe along the bust and very tops of her thighs. Her ample cleavage jiggles when she walks, her scarlet mouth set in a confident purse. As she gets closer, you can see her dark eyes framed by impossibly long lashes. She is a gift if the Boss so wills it, that much is obvious.

 

Jonah searches Red before letting him pass into the cordoned off V.I.P. section toward you and the Boss. The man approaches, reaches out as if to shake the Boss’ hand. You block the attempt at a handshake, pointing silently to the booth across from J.

 

Red sits and rolls his eyes rudely, legs spread wide like he needs all the room he can get. The Boss hasn’t acknowledged him yet. The other man eyes the Golden Girls still in J’s lap. You cluck your tongue, the sound gratefully lost to the music, remaining at the Joker’s side. He touches you again, his hand running up the back of your knee toward your thigh, hitching the side of the skirt up around his wrist.

 

To your surprise, the Boss grips the center of his cane and lifts it into the air, signaling his statues away. With neutral expressions the Golden Girls walk arm-in-arm toward a stage lit in red, their bodies swaying like cobras before they disappear into the throng of people.

 

The Latina woman moves to join Red, but Donny stops her, Jonah searching her before letting her pass through. She sits in Red’s lap, eyes all for the Boss. You remain neutral, back straight. Your stance shows off your powerful legs, the Boss’ nails raking down your skin, leaving little red marks, he smirks when you jolt at the feeling before relaxing back into your stance.

 

The Joker pounds his cane on the floor and stands, rolling his shoulders and then his eyes dramatically. You smile as the Boss lifts his tattooed hand over his mouth, a loud “HA-HA-HA,” belting out over the music as he shows the grin tattoo to the red twins sitting across from him. It’s like watching some great dragon awake and lay waste to a village. His animated movements have the blood thundering through your veins, your cheeks warming at the sight of him finally livening up!

 

J slips easily onto the table in front of Red. His mouth is serious, lips parted so his grill glints menacingly. Motioning with his many-ringed fingers for Red to lean forward, you move to stand so close your arm almost touches J’s knee.

“Red. RONNY,” J grins finally, clasping his hands theatrically as if in the presence of a savior, J leans his head down as Red leans forward uncomfortably. The woman goes to stand off of Red’s lap, but you and J’s cane get in the way. Pulling your Mark III, you aim it at her and tilt your head to the side, silently daring her to move again.

 

The Joker cackles and gives a dramatic smooch to your cheek, leaving a lipstick “O” behind. You smirk at it, keeping your eyes on the woman while J flicks his razor open and stares at Red Ronny, holding a silent palm out.

“ _WELL_?” J scowls, waiting for Red, palm still. Red produces a tiny baggie of white powder that he takes a pinch of, sprinkling it onto his own tongue as a show of good faith in his product.

 

You hide your surprise expertly when J grabs your hips and **lifts**  you into his lap. The Joker’s cerulean eyes stare at you meaningfully, his bony knee digging into your ass. Dutifully, you watch the red twins for movement. The Boss eases your Mark III back into the holster, taking hold of your throat, his thumb sliding down your neck. He tilts your head up so he can lick from your neck to your jawline. Goosebumps sprout over your arms and legs at his attention, back tensing to suppress a shudder.

 

The gorgeous Latina woman stares hard at you as if sizing you up, her false lashes reaching as she smiles coyly. Her ruby lips and perfect white teeth gleam in the strobing lights. The plentiful eye makeup tells you she’s a professional _something_ , maybe even a dancer here. J isn’t playing fair now, it’s getting harder to focus on the two assholes with his teasing.

 

The Boss ignores Ronny and his raven-haired woman to your quiet satisfaction. He grabs your jaw, the coolness of his rings pressing into your skin. He turns your head, forcing you to look at him. Coaxing you down onto the table top beside him, the Boss feels your hesitation and leans into you, his mouth working at your lips, tongue immediately seeking entrance. You give into him, his palm slowly pushing you down until you’re leaning back on your elbows.

 

He straddles your left leg, further from the twins - a dominant posture. Carefully tapping a little of the white powder onto the curved edge of one of your breasts, he leans down, staring into your eyes as he _slowly_  licks the line of coke off your skin. He continues past the drug, stopping at the corner of your mouth. With a purr of pleasure as the drug sinks in, his eyes close for only a moment. The Boss stays bent over you, his hands running up your thighs, bunching the beaded skirt.

 

The attention he offers you is not for your benefit. Instead, it serves as a message to the people trying to get something from him. It tells them that people are resources, meant to be used according to his whim. It says that he owns this club, he’s not interested in what it has to offer. The Joker brings his own pretty ornaments to say this so his lips don’t have to.

 

Forcing yourself to remain calm, you watch the Boss undo his bowtie. Slinging the cream-colored fabric around your neck, he pulls on both ends, forcing you up onto your knees. Immediately, you understand his game. You reach for the button at his neck, stopping before touching. He watches you closely as you undo his shirt, careful not to touch his skin as more becomes exposed. Shrugging the jacket off, he tosses it easily into the empty booth where it lands in a heap of expensive material.

 

This is how you like him best - as undone outside as he is inside. His hair is starting to lose its styling, acid green strands falling toward his sculpted face. The Boss’ razor is in his hands and you lean down to take it carefully with your teeth. Tilting his head back, his iconic laugh rings out, “HA-HAA!” J’s hair hangs behind him, his eyes closed in amusement, grill glinting now and then in that frozen grin.

 

He slips the baggie into your black-nailed hand, patient as you eye his exposed skin, deciding where to take the body shot of cocaine off of him. Your cheeks warm, but you ignore it, using a palm straight on his bare chest to add pressure until he leans back as you did. He allows the contact and the pressure, watching you tap a small pile of powder beneath his bellybutton, down toward the waistband of his pants. Carefully using the razor’s sharp edge, you move the powder into a single line up his abdomen, right up the center of the large grin tattoo. Staring up into his face, you dip the very edge of your tongue below the waistband of his pants, pushing it up his skin. His eyes grow heated as he watches, his chest rising and falling a little quicker. You stop at the top of the coke line, curling your tongue back into your mouth, sitting up. The Boss growls, his chest rumbling beneath your palm, eyes dark with **want**.  

 

The Boss slips off the table. You retrieve his cane and jacket, handing them to him. He drapes the jacket over his arm, flicking the little baggie back across the table at Red. You almost forgot about the two imbeciles on the other side of the table.

 

Red snatches the bag, standing angrily, his fingers curled into fists. He shoves the woman toward the Boss, but Jonah intercepts her. Time seems to slow as the woman dips her red-nailed fingers between her cleavage as she approaches Jonah. Without hesitating, you quick-draw your Mark III and pull the trigger twice, **BAM BAM**. The woman crumples to the floor, blood splattering your right arm as you move your finger off the trigger. Pops steps beside you to tap Red in the head and chest. The Boss sneers at the two on the floor, hooting in exhilaration at the fast take-down.

 

The Red Light patrons startle at the gunshots over the sound of the music. People run, tits bouncing everywhere as they flood toward the doors and out into the cold, early morning air. Dancers scuttle off the stages to find a safe haven in the chaos. Music continues to play as the club empties rather quickly, the Boss motioning for Jonah and Pops to search the dead red twins.

“At least it matches his suit,” you smirk, the Boss laughing loudly at your remark before he grabs the bust of your bodysuit and hauls you up against the hard line of his body.

“ _Drive,” he commands, nipping at your jaw before abruptly releasing you._

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

He drapes his shirt over the bed and stalks around you, unzipping the back of the glittering bodysuit. You hold the top of it against yourself as the straps drop to your elbows. Little red splatters of blood cover your right arm. J stops in front of you, his hands cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples, making them stiffen.

 

Your lips part, teeth quickly chewing at your full lower lip before the Boss hooks a thumb into the waist of the bodysuit, peeling it down your hips until it pools at the floor. Sliding his middle fingers down into your lace underwear, he sinks one side down your thigh.

 

 _The broken sink in the dirty bathroom, your pants at half-mast as your cuffed hands struggle to pull them back up. The Boss’ intrusion on the moment, his hand trailing across your belly to the swell of your hip_. Your cheeks warm at the memory as you shimmy out of the underwear.

 

Boldly, you cup J’s crotch over his gray briefs, watching in interest when his head tilts back and he sighs, a little voice behind it. Drunk on the power that surges within you at the sound, you become single-minded to coax it from him again. Rubbing your fingers against him, keeping the friction up, you sink to your knees. The Boss’ hooded eyes follow your movement and he grins, licking his teeth as he stares down at you.

“This. _View_ ,” he pants, struggling to get the words out when your mouth takes as much of him in as you can without choking. He groans, fist tangling in your hair. The Boss looks perfect, his lipstick kissed away, his abdomen tense to keep himself standing, while you blow him. You carefully maneuver him toward the edge of the bed to push slowly on his thighs. He fights your push, and grabs your arms to stick his tongue into your mouth. He swallows the noise you make, hefting you up his body to wrap your legs around his waist just before he tilts back and falls onto the mattress. Prying his hand between your bodies, J roughly shoves three fingers into you, finding you wet.

“Eager,” he purr-sighs. You sit up and sink on top of him, moaning at the same time he grunts, teeth clinking together at the force of his upward thrust. He bottoms out against your cervix, causing you to gasp and flinch. Working through the pain, you re-angle your hips, starting to ride him.

He pants, his hand reaching for your discarded holster on the side of the bed. Using your foot to grab the strap, you pull it toward yourself, keeping your pace while you pull the holster back on, pausing now and then to focus on pleasing him. The Boss grabs your tits, squeezing. His lips part, his bottom jaw tense as he pistons up into you from below, picking the pace up. The change throws you off. You growl in frustration, biting viciously at his nipple. The Boss' cock swells at the pain you inflict, his thrusting filling you up and making the white build behind your eyelids. Your bite draws blood, he groans, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he pushes up and pulls you down at the same time, head sinking back against the satin sheets.

 

Pulling your gun from its holster, the Boss pulls the slide back. The chambered 9mm bullet pops out of the gun. Releasing the magazine from the handle, he drops it to the carpeted floor with a soft __PLUNK.__  Inspecting it, he aims it at your head. You don’t flinch, having just watched him unload it, closing your eyes to grind harder against him.

 

He rolls you off and moves on top of you, rubbing the muzzle of your Mark III against your wet puss. The cold metal makes you squeal in surprise - fear seeping into your bones. The Boss’ eyes are shining with lust, his pupils so large they swallow the blue, your hand moving to work him, keep him hard. He slides the very edge of the muzzle into your wet pussy and twists it slowly, allowing your body to get used to the feel of it. You screech at the strange feeling, bolting upright. J laughs, it sounds nothing like his iconic cackle. Instead, it’s a pleased, amused bark that fills the room. He leans back to get a good look at you, his hard cock glistening with your juices while your hand strokes up and down. His body is all inked pale skin and the shadowed lines of sculpted muscle. He’s so fucking perfect, it hurts.

 

Feeling the need to break this strange moment, you bite his neck hard, grabbing his hand to work the gun further into your own body. He pulls away from your teeth, lips parting as he sits up, watching the weapon enter your body repeatedly.

“ _Kitten_ ,” he groans, precum leaking from his pulsing dick. Your tongue seeks out the rare drop, like water in a desert. It twitches in your hand, the tip so engorged it looks purple. He groans loud and starts to fuck you faster with your own gun, your mouth moving down on the shaft.

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

Unable to sleep, J rolls his eyes, white lining the very edge of his nostril until he wipes it away, pulling air in through his nose on a long inhale. The Boss’ many-ringed fingers trail a line from your thigh to your knee and back up again, absently rubbing the skin with his palm and then fingertips.

 

You fucked your way through the hours of the morning. Having recently showered, you’re both still wet with water. The satin sheets stick to your skin where droplets have accumulated from your long, wet hair.

 

These calm moments, they lull you into a false sense of security you know will get you killed. Without another word, you pull your pants suit on, leaving the discarded bodysuit on the floor. You toss your underwear at the Boss before collecting the soiled Browning and the magazine from the floor. Sliding the stray bullet back into the spring, you stick the magazine into your pants pocket. Using a washcloth, you wrap the gun.

 

The Boss is lounging naked in bed. You catch his eye when you turn to close the door. The cobalt blue sheets make his eyes seem impossibly more bright. He winks. You smirk. And then, you leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus CHRIST, this chapter has been the BANE of my existence for over a month. I started and re-started this one at least seven times, whittling away at the silly stuff that didn't make sense. I originally tried to squeeze too much plot in, but the (insane) sex kind of took over. . .


	19. Pale Emperor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Chapter title inspired by the Manson album of the same name. Nerdy Fallout reference within this chapter!) The sex is getting in the way of my plot. O.o *WARNING* Contains explicit sexual content. NSFW!

**Chapter 19: Pale Emperor**

 

Equal parts adrenaline and rage fuel your ability to carry her. “I can walk,” she says through clenched teeth, her arm bleeding freely. It flows down her fingers as she clutches it. The moment you let go of Princess, her knees buckle and she collapses, groaning in pain. Quickly slinging her good arm over your shoulder, you jog toward the few cars parked in front of the jewelry store to use as cover.

 

Falcone’s flunkies open fire in your direction. None of them are Edward - you _checked_. You push Princess down for cover behind a silver sedan’s engine block.

“ ** _Fuck_** ,” you mutter as a bullet shatters one of the sedan’s windows. You lean out to return fire: POP-POP-POP. Watching one of them fall heavily to the sidewalk in front of V Magnum Diamonds, you go to grab Princess, but she’s laying now, losing consciousness.  

 

Pops backs the black SUV toward you in a squeal of tires and brake lights. Throwing the rear passenger door open, you heft Princess into your arms and slide her onto the seat, diving in beside her. Donny peels out of the parking lot and swerves at the end of the road - narrowly missing a taxi that beeps its horn long after you’re gone.

 

The sky growls with thunder, the sound grating against your bones. Dark clouds loom over the entire city. It looks like evening instead of early afternoon. Fat rain drops splatter against the windshield. Princess’ gunshot wound is bleeding profusely - so much blood everywhere. It’s covering your hands, smeared warm on your pants and splotching the black of your shirt even darker. Her breathing is quick and labored, pulse weak.

 

“Stay with me, Princess,” you say, voice wavering as the adrenaline still flows through your body. Quickly arching your back and ass off the seat, you slip your belt from your jeans. With trembling hands, you make a loop out of the worn leather and slip it around her arm. Biting the long end, you snatch your pocket knife off the waistband of your pants and dig a new hole into the leather to stick the metal pin through as tight as it’ll go. It takes a minute to work, but the make-shift tourniquet stems the flow of blood and slows the bleeding coming from the open wound. Her skin is white and she’s starting to lose consciousness again. Pulling your black vest off, you stuff it against the hole and press as hard as you can, her gasp and hiss making you glad she’s still awake. Her mahogany eyes stare half-lidded up at you.

 

“ **FUCK**!,” you seethe, kicking the back of the empty passenger seat. “You said the Spades scouted the fucking place. How did they  not know it was Falcone’s?”

 

Pops hits a button on the car’s instrument panel and places a call. You remain silent in the back. He gets through to Dr. Mickelson, the Boss’ on-call M.D. They make plans to get Princess immediate medical attention, Donny’s foot pressing harder on the gas as the car presses on.

 

Pops curses from the driver’s seat, turning his head to glance at you. “That shit went down recently. Somethin’ ain’t right about this. The Boss is gonna’ be furious.” So much for the fucking _plan_. It was supposed to be an **easy**  job, in-and-out.

 

Falcone’s people follow, quickly gaining on the SUV - four sleek silver sedans hot on your tail. “We gotta’ lose ‘em before we hit Uptown,” Pops mumbles. Gunshots ring outside, bullets hitting the metal of the car with a _TINK, TINK _.__ You lay Princess all the way down on the seat to shield her from the line of fire.

 

“On it.” You climb over the backseat into the trunk, narrowly missing a bullet that breaks the back windshield. Glass rains over you, hands protecting your face. Slamming a new magazine into your Mark III, you shoot and miss several times before finally shattering the windshield of the closest sedan, ducking when they return fire. Wind whistles in through the shattered rear window.

 

Holstering your pistol to search the trunk, you yank your sleeve over your hand to brush thick pieces of broken glass away. Pulling a duffle bag toward you, you unzip it to find a long rifle nestled inside. Grinning, you pull out the AR-15 semi-automatic, leaning back against the wall to steady yourself. The rifle is heavy but sturdy, nestled easily against the muscle in front of your armpit. You take aim, pulling the trigger in small bursts. They sound larger than your Mark III, a steady _TUKA-TUKA-TUKA-TUKA_ filling the SUV as you assault Falcone’s lackey’s through the broken window.

 

A steady thud of bullets into the front end of the first silver car has the engine smoking before the engine block bursts into flame. Two more cars take its place, weaving in and out of traffic.

 

Pops keeps the car steady as you take aim and shoot, taking out a driver. The car veers to the side before crashing. You take a moment to duck and check the weapon for spare ammo, readying a secondary magazine while they shoot back. Some of their shots land, peppering the trunk. A bullet grazes your side and you hiss in pain, allowing your anger to sharpen your senses, taking out the third vehicle moments later.

 

“WOOO!” Pops hoots with a grin from the front, swerving hard to pull the SUV onto the Aparo Expressway. With one car left behind you, you raise the AR-15 once more and take aim.

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

****

“What,” he says quietly, his face neutral and terrifying, “Happened?” J stands at the head of a long meeting table with both palms pressed against its scarred surface. A clean, white dress shirt unbuttoned three-quarters of the way down shows off his ink - the Pale Emperor.

 

The rain pounds on the tin roof of the warehouse in Crime Alley. Muscle Sprout stands against the far wall in a tight navy t-shirt showing off an extensively used gym membership. His dark skin is hairless where it shows - tattoos _just_  visible before they disappear beneath his shirt. Six people with spade tattoos cluster around him, their hands all clasped like the fucking Men in Black.

 

“ **SPEAK!** ,”J seethes, rounding the table with a snarl of anger and disgust. The sea of people parts around him like the coming of some kind of Chaotic Christ. He pauses near the doorway, turning to survey the faces of his servants. With one finger, he gets the Spades to join you and Donny on the other side of the table, returning them to the fold - disregarding their separating themselves from the fuck-up.

 

“Falcone bought the place out from under us, Boss,” Pops says. He stands beside you, giving off a distinct air of protectiveness. You glance up from your chair at the table. Pops ignores the look, eyes only for the Boss right now.

 

“Explain,” J demands, advancing on Pops. You can smell a mix between the Boss’ egregiously expensive cologne, sweat, and wet dog. Jonah steps into the room, hair and face moist with rain as he brushes the sleeves of his shirt off. The Boss doesn’t seem to notice his late entry. Thunder booms, startling a few of the people in the room. Many shift nervously on their feet in the face of the Boss’ anger. Lightning flashes outside the skylight over the center of the room. J’s face is in a frozen-snarl, his lip raised to show his teeth.

 

“Somebody sold us out. He bought the place between the time when the Spades cased it and the Clubs ran it. They knew we were comin’.”

 

The Joker runs his tongue over his top row of teeth and yanks you out of your chair by the arm. The chair clatters to the floor as Pops holds his hands up in a sign of surrender. You can envision Pops with his hackles raised as the Boss drops your arm to grab your throat instead, pointing at the door for the others to leave.

 

“Boss, she took out four of Falcone’s - “ Pops starts, trying to save you from J’s wrath.

 

“Donny Boy. This,” he gestures to you and himself, “isn’t about the here-and-now. _Out_.” The room empties, the door slamming closed as Pops leaves last, his anger adding to the suffocating tension in the air. You don’t understand why Donny would do that - stick up for you to try and soften the Boss’ anger.

You remain silent, choosing to taking the Boss’ punishment like a champ. The second Pops had said there was a rat, you _knew_. The logical guess was that it was you. It _ **wasn’t**_ , but that wouldn’t matter until the Boss took time to fact-check. He was more thorough than most gave him credit for - this punishment was something else.

 

J breathes in deep through his nose, his nostrils widening for a moment. He closes his bruised eyes, nimble fingers making quick work of the last few buttons on his shirt. His hand holds it out, eyes still closed. The fabric sways at the end for a moment before you reach out, fingers _just_  brushing his calloused skin as you take it. 

 

Hanging it behind his chair at the head of the table, the Boss squeezes out a smile at you - all teeth and bad intentions. Your heart rate speeds as he takes the time to crack his knuckles, back, and neck. You bravely walk toward him.

 

When you look up, the Boss’ chin is tilted down toward his chest, his eyes swallowing you whole. He’s watching you like a lion about to hunt. That look shoots a bolt of warmth between your legs even though it means pain. You’re not sure when being hunted by the Boss became exciting, a kind of sexual release that only he could ignite in you. The logical part of your brain fights it, the word “unhealthy” repeating itself.

 

Something shifts behind your eyes, some epiphany sparks there and parts your lips as the Boss watches - entranced with your expression.

 

You _care_.

 

He steps forward, carefully gripping your throat as he leans you back against the wall, his grip tightening just a little each passing second, but never enough to really hurt you yet. You don’t understand his hesitation, this slow agony of anticipation, but you moan into his mouth when he kisses you hard and hungry. You stare up into his face, the weight of the moment threatening to crush you. The weight in your chest expands with each little breath you take - threatening to suffocate you before the Boss has the chance.

 

And this kind of combustion is different than what’s eating at you with Edward Colt. This is the J’s darkness, his destruction, to Edward’s light. J takes where Colt gives, the Boss mutilates where Edward worships. The yin and yang of your new world, where you’re the line between, bent and arched in two opposing directions at the same time.

 

But this moment . . .it feels too vulnerable, too intimate, even though he’s about to hurt you. Again. The moment is raw, and the Joker stares into your eyes, his fingers twitching around your neck as if he’s considering something. Letting go? You almost laugh at the ridiculous thought.

And yet here you stand, without fighting back, allowing him to touch you. His long digits spread up and out to cup the back of your neck. He hooks your chin hard with his other hand, his tongue diving against yours as he straddles your body, both of you sinking to the floor. Something about how he’s hesitating - how he’s raking his eyes all over your face as he kisses you - it’s as if he’s trying to memorize how you look in this moment.

 

It doesn’t feel like the end. Not the _real_  end, anyway. He isn’t going to kill you. Yet. But you feel something alive and writhing inside your ribs, beating harder and harder to get out. He watches the emotion swim in your eyes as if in a trance. J leans back to suck air into his lungs, his mouth _just_  out of reach.

 

The epiphany - you _care_  - rings in your expression, leaking into the Boss’ consciousness. His eyes dilate and he closes them, his mouth parted as he exhales short little breaths onto your face. The hot air leaves you cold milliseconds later. This is the epitome of the two of you - this love/hate, need/want, fight and fuck relationship you’ve forged together.

 

The telltale sign of tears starts in your mouth - the tang of saline starting in the corners of your jaw before your eyes sting and start to burn. The bottoms of your eyelids fill, but they don’t spill over. The Boss leans back, head tilted to the side.

 

“You’re right, Kitten,” he sighs against your skin, nipping at the point of your chin. He bites, kisses, licks, then moves to the corner of your mouth. You close your eyes, tears leaking down the left side of your cheek. His tongue catches it before it hits your jaw - following the wet line with one of his own as he licks back up to your eye. You smile at the strangeness of his reaction and dig your nails into the very nape of his neck, pausing.

 

He hums in approval, his warm fingers slide your knife from the waistband of your pants. He touches more skin than he needs to, his nails scraping against your abdomen. J grips the center of your shirt in one hand and uses the knife to cut it up the center from the bottom.

 

You turn your face away, but he turns it back, tisking. “Nuh-uh-uh, baby.” His voice is deep and throaty. With the flick of his wrist, the tension from your bra releases, the center cut open. The cups sag, exposing your breasts. With a shrug, you drop the ruined fabric to the floor. His eyes take you in, his tongue darting out to lick the corner of his mouth, reaching down to adjust the growing erection in his pants. The tongue movement makes your core burn with heat, his hand in his pants causing your cheeks to flush with embarrassment and arousal.

 

“You’re right, Kitten,” he drawls on. You wish he’d just shut the fuck **up**  and hit you already. “I. Can’t. **Make**. You,” he lifts the knife, barely scratching the skin just beneath the “J” to make an “O.”

 

 _What is he even talking about?_  Your eyes jump to his face, but then your eyes focus in on the cat tattoo and your head sinks back against the wall in realization.

 

This is the punishment you have been waiting for since you broke in his lap after seeing that tattoo. The control you took away by balancing him with Edward Colt - a man he intended for you to kill. The memories flood back into your forethoughts: _“But I will never love you,” you had said. His jaw tightened, lip curled at the corner in a silent snarl, his fingers raked into claws to grab painfully hard at your chest. “And ** **YOU**** ,” - you spat viciously, straining up toward his face - “can never ****MAKE****   ** **ME****!” You screamed the last two words so loudly your ears rang, face molten with rage._

 

“But you already do,” he grins, as if he’s read your mind. His hands move yours to the button of your pants. You undo them, sliding them down with your underwear as the Boss licks the scratch he just made. It stings, but it’s bearable as he straddles your bare leg. His rock-hard dick strains against his pants as he rubs against your leg, tracing the “O” again with your own knife, making it deeper, making it bleed.

 

You lift your fist to bite your hand at the pain, but he kisses you instead. Moaning into your mouth when you rub you leg against his crotch, he hurts you. You work his pants open, a mixed sound escaping when he digs a little too deep as you palm his prick. Blood pours down your torso to leak down over your side and start a little puddle on the floor. Precum pearls at his head, your thumb swiping it around, legs moving to slip around his hips. You guide him in, your moan turning into a scream when he thrusts and cuts at the same time, starting on the “K.”

 

Panting now, he looks down at his work of art and clucks his tongue. Tears stream down your face, making the hair by your ears wet, your head bumping into the wall as he fucks you. You cry behind your hand, biting hard to keep from fighting him as he draws the outer line nice and long, pulling it toward your abdomen.

 

Surveying his work, he sits up and wipes your knife off on your discarded shirt before folding it and clipping it back onto your pants. He rushes to pull out, cumming all over with a grunt as he pulls back and away from you. Your trembling hand is still fisted in your mouth as he uses your discarded bra to clean himself off.

 

In silence, he tucks himself back into his slacks, zips them up and shrugs his shirt back on. “Get your toy, Kitten. We need’a have a _chat.”_

 

And with that, he leaves the room as if this is business as usual. And for him - it is.

 

 _Huh_. He didn’t cut as deep this time, the bleeding is already starting to slow as the door clicks closed. You pull your phone from your pants pocket. Moving to sit on your knees before slowly standing, you curse at Colt’s shit habit of not answering.

 

Using your underwear to clean the aftersex off your body, you drop them to the floor in favor of shimmying your pants back on as you grip the phone. “C’mon, C’mon,” you breathe, trapping the phone against your cheek with your shoulder. You lift your shirt off the floor and slip your arms through the sleeves, pulling at the bottom ends to tie it, covering just your breasts. It showcases the Boss’ new handiwork beneath the bloody mess. You grimace at all the blood, using your ruined bra to to wipe at it.

 

The call goes to voicemail.

 

You redial.

 

Hangup.

 

Redial.

 

Rinsing the cuts the best you can in the small bathroom of his office, you’re drying your body with paper towel as the Boss whistles loudly - a command not to be ignored. You toss the towel in the trash on your way out the door and job toward the stairs.

 

_“Hello?”_

__“__ Jesus Christ, Goldilocks. How many fuckin’ times are you gonna’ let it ring?”

_“Nice to hear from you, too, Honey.”_

“The fastest you can drive, under the Sprang. The __Boss__  wants a meeting.”

_“What about?”_

“V Magnum fucking Diamonds, Colt. You better have some fuckin’ answers,” you hang up rudely.

 

Jogging toward the green-haired gangster waiting at the door, you’re keenly aware of the Boss watching your tits bounce, barely restrained beneath your tied shirt. The rest of his crew is working - ticking off boxes on clipboards, opening and sealing containers for movement, doing their best to ignore the Boss and evade his wrath.

 

He eyes your shirt and smirks, offering his arm to you in a mock show of courtesy. You take his elbow, allowing him to lead you to the Vaydor. He leads you to the driver’s seat, wasting no time getting in. Yanking the seatbelt across your body, you remember the first time he fucked you - just before the first time he left. Your eyes threaten to burn again, but you pull your anger to the surface and push the pain back down. Focusing on the physical ache on your chest, it’s easy to distract yourself.

 

J turns his head to gaze out the window as his left hand slips across your thigh to the button on your jeans. You fight the roll of your eyes at his horniness. Deftly, he flicks it open and dips a finger inside, humming in amusement at your lack of underwear. Your hands grip the wheel harder as your face and neck heat when his finger slides inside of you easily, finding you ready.

 

“Mmm,” rumbles in his chest as he turns to watch you as he touches you. Finding it difficult to stay on the road, you writhe against his hand, moaning when he slides a second finger in and moves closer. The Boss slides his right hand over your breast, thumbing the nipple until it stiffens against the thin fabric of your shirt. He teases you until you swerve to avoid an oncoming tractor-trailer. He bites your neck, jerking the wheel toward the side of the road as he pumps his fingers faster, your head falling back against the seat as your chest rises and falls more quickly, your foot slamming the brakes. The Vaydor jolts to a stop as you fumble to put it in park.

 

Without a word, the Boss lifts you out of the seat and helps you climb into his lap, his erection pushing up against your core as you grind down against him. He groans, untying your shirt, his large hands cupping your flesh easily, mouth sucking on a stiff nipple, teeth nipping. His dick’s so hard already, the fingers of his left hand gripping your hip as you work your pelvis down against his.

 

In a flurry of movement, he has you both nude, pushing you down into the seat as he enters you. You moan loud, pushing your body up, grinding up and around against him as he pulls out and pushes back in, slow to accommodate your writhing. After a moment he loses patience and pounds into you, the sound of skin-on-skin filling the small space of the sports car.

 

Having enough, you tell him to sit and he does, without a fight, to your surprise. Eagerly, you sink down on him, his head dropping back against the seat as he growls to mask the moan behind it. His hair is getting fluffy where it’s touching the seat, his moving breaking the careful gel application.

 

Leaning in, you bite his bottom lip hard, pulling back as you ride him hard and fast to keep the friction up. He pistons up into you at the same time, his hips raising up off the seat, your chest bouncing with the movement. 

 

This time is different. It’s fast and desperate, like all of the times you’ve fucked have led to this moment, a series of mistakes ready to ruin the both of you. He closes his eyes, leaning forward to run his tongue over the scarred letter of his namesake. Your breath hitches, keening as colors _explode_  behind your eyes - your body convulsing in rapture around him. Your pussy pulses, sucking at him as you orgasm, legs twitching and twitching, your body losing all control as he fucks you into oblivion, his own release following shortly after. He doesn’t push you off, he doesn’t pull away, he stays inside you as he cums.

 

Every little movement makes you twitch again and he grins below you, a long purr of approval rumbling in his chest. “Mmm,” he sighs, not moving. You reach down to pull your clothes off the floor, but he stops you. Instead, he leans up to kiss you, his teeth worrying your bottom lip. He leans back with it still between his teeth before it snaps out of his mouth with a _pop_.

 

This is different. _But what the fuck does it mean?_


	20. You’ll Find Me Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING* This chapter contains graphic violence and sexual content. NSFW!

(Chapter title inspired by the XYLØ song “Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea.”)

 

**Chapter 20: You’ll Find Me Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea**

 

Edward is already parked beneath the Sprang Bridge when you careen the Boss’ Vaydor down the winding road and skid to a stop. Dust kicks up from the commotion, temporarily obscuring your view. J’s got the door open before you even put it in park, all sated swagger and confidence. He leans against the hood with his arms crossed, sucking at his teeth. You close the door, handing the keys to the Boss. His hand whips out to grab your palm, thumb curling the keys into his own hand while swinging you toward Edward Colt. A not-so-subtle gesture for you to deal with this.

 

Goldilocks stands awkwardly in front of his shiny white sedan with his hands up as Donny pats him down. Pops gestures for Goldilocks to move forward, remaining just behind Colt and to his side. He clasps his hands in front of his body, watching the exchange closely. His paternal need to protect you, while sweet, is a weakness the Boss will soon exploit.

“Well?,” you ask, stopping a foot in front of the blond man. He swipes his hair out of his face, surveying your tied shirt and the clear addition of the Boss’ namesake still red and angry on your chest. His jaw tightens, his thumbs hooking into his front pockets.

 

Your palms start to tingle. You suck a deep breath in through your nose. **_FUCK_**. Turning to glance at the Boss, you lick your bottom lip anxiously. He doesn’t know your tells - he won’t know what that means until you become unresponsive. Fisting your hands, you dig your nails into the skin of your palms until they shake, using the pain to stay focused. Donny watches, his hands unclasping, taking a step closer toward you and Goldilocks. Of course, _he_  noticed the change in your demeanor. Sweat starts to line your upper lip, the breeze from the Gotham River cooling the moist skin as it swirls your hair around your head.

 

“I run his drugs. I don’t typically have access to this kind of information. Antonio Moretti is in Falcone’s top tier. He received a call right before he bought V Magnum. My boss was __waiting__  for this call before he moved to buy. I traced it to a landline from a shipping warehouse in The Hill. It’s in __your__  Boss’ territory, it could be from one of your people. That’s all I’ve got.”

Goldilocks texts you several photos - one of Antonio Moretti on his phone, one of just the guy’s phone and contact ID, and another with many calls from the same number.

Black dots threaten your vision as a drop of sweat slips off the end of your thumbnail and pats quietly onto the dirt. Time slows for you, your breaths coming in short little pants as your lips part and your eyes unfocus. It’s time to wrap this shit up, the prophecy is coming. Your heart rate is picking up, teeth clenching as a wave a nausea spasms in your gut. You can feel the pain of the crescent-shaped cuts your nails have made in your palms as you squeeze the nails further into your skin.

“I want your fuckin’ eyes and ears on the top tier, Colt. I need that info before it fucking happens or else your life is forfeit. You live, you _give_. That was the deal,” you say firmly. Goldilocks works his jaw in irritation, but nods. He’s looking past you toward the Boss who watches silently. Without another word, Colt steps back and turns to walk toward his car.

Your eyes close for a moment before your knees give out.

“Kid?,” Pops asks, walking toward you.

You can hear the footfalls, but can’t see him - your eyesight dark as your mind drifts away. With shaking hands, you press your palms to the dirt, trying to hold your body up. Eyes closed, you hear voices, but can’t see, can’t speak.

Pops yells, “Hey! You O.K.?”

Your mind moves away from the here-and-now. _A female voice laughs, saying words you can’t decipher, having a conversation with another woman. Then louder, as if standing beside you, she says, “He won’t know what hit him. We’re 14 karat, baby.” And she laughs loud, a second female voice joining in, if a bit nervously._

Arms wrap around your body and hoist you up into the air. You whisper, mouth growing slack as you struggle to focus on what’s happening to your body. J speaks. You’re vaguely aware your body being held. Pops is yelling, his voice distant before a door closes.

_You spoke aloud, said something you heard only moments before. But you can’t remember. You can **never**  fucking remember. _

And then someone is slapping gently at your cheeks - cold rings smooth against your skin as you fight to wake up.

“Come back to Daddy,” he whispers against your skin. He cups your jaw - you can feel his warmth. Your eyes startle open and you bolt upright, slamming right into the Boss. Your head hits his chin and he curses, grabbing your shoulders to hold you still. His expression is thoughtful but gives no indication of what he’s thinking. Your eyes are wide and afraid, breath coming in little gasps of air.

“Breathe. _Slow _,”__ he coaxes, and the memory of the tattoo parlor floods your mind, your eyes closing as tears slide down to the skin of his palms while he cups your face in both hands.

The Boss fastens your seat belt and closes the passenger side door to the Vaydor. After a word with Pops, you see the older man jog to the black SUV tucked parallel to the Bridge’s support pillars. J speeds out of the dirt lot of the Sprang bridge’s underbelly, heading back into the city.

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

The Boss leaves you sitting in the car as he stalks toward the doors of The Red Light, his open shirt flapping behind him. Once he gets to the doors, they fling open for him, Muscle Sprout looking confused as seeing his Boss stride in, the 1911 slipping easily from its holster as the Boss holds up two fingers. Muscle Sprout disappears inside, the door closing behind them.

Pops stays behind to make sure you can walk on your own. You step out of the car, stomach somersaulting. A moan is the only warning before you throw up on the pavement.

“What the fuck happened, Kid?”

“I hear things,” you say - voice hoarse. You spit twice as you walk toward the building.

 “What things?” Pops slows, gently catching your elbow to stop you. Grateful for the momentary pause in movement, you close your eyes to still the dizziness.

“I don’t know,” you rasp, spitting again to get the last taste of bile out of your mouth. You resume your trek to the front doors, drawing your Mark III.

“Put that away and answer the _damn_  question,” Pops says firmly, tone leaving no room for vague answers.

“Look, _you_  have a better fuckin’ idea since you _heard_  it, Donny. I can’t fuckin’ _remember_  what I say once it’s out. **That’s**  the problem. I have no idea what the Boss is all worked up over and it came from _my_  mouth.”

****

****♣♣♣♣** **

****

You sit on the sofa, a fresh bottle of water in your hands. The condensation has peeled one corner of the label back. You worry at it with your nails, working to peel it completely off.

“What do I do to people who make me angry? Hm?” the Boss asks the Golden Girls. He holds his palm out flat, rolling his fingers toward himself, waiting for a reply. Seconds tick by with no answer. The weaker one, Thing 2, she starts to cry.

Pops and Jonah kick the women’s heels off, securing their ankles with zip ties. The Boss grabs Thing 1, holding his 1911 to her head. You give her credit, she doesn’t flinch - that expressionless mask still in place. Thing 2 sobs louder, afraid to speak as the Boss grinds his teeth at the sound.

Flicking his straight-razor out of his pants pocket, he tosses it into your lap. Your stomach rolls at the thought of what he wants you to do with it. Gripping it in your dominant hand, you carefully place the bottle of water on the floor where it leaves a ring of condensation on the finished wood.  

You motion to Jonah and he grabs Thing 2’s wailing face, holding her steady. Thing 1 twitches. You suck air in through your nose, your conscience retreating to the growing darkness inside that helps you survive this life.

A piercing scream has your ears ringing when you push the sharp edge across Thing 2’s mouth, splitting her face open at either end to extend her “smile.” The skin bleeds profusely, her agony clear as Thing 1 starts to break under the torture. Nausea swoops over your stomach at the brutality of it, blood flowing in spurts from the wounded skin. 

“Hurt them. You hurt them!,” Thing 1 says eagerly. The Boss holds a finger up and you pause, Thing 2’s mutilated mouth leaking bloody saliva. It drools down her chin with the gold paint, leaving a strange little smudge of real skin bare.

J keeps his attention on Thing 1,“And to people who fail me?”

“Kill them.”

“But the best. _Laaaadies _,”__ he claps, “The best, I saved for last.” He grins, holding his palm out to you. You lay his bloody razor in his hand. Waggling his eyebrows at your compliance, he starts to cut a rather deep line down Thing 1’s clavicle toward the edge of her golden dress. She screams, the sound piercing the office as the other starts to sob harder, her tears streaking clean lines down her face. Blood runs down Thing 1’s torso into her dress, making it a red ruin.

A wave of dizziness at all the blood pooling on the floor has you swiveling back onto the couch. You sink into the cushion, pulling from the bottle of water to distract yourself.

Thing 2 covers her face, crying, “No! No, no, no.”

“That’s **incorrect** ,” the Boss pouts. Jonah grabs Thing 2, baring her throat for the Boss. J sighs and works his lower jaw, gritting his bottom teeth together. The sound sends shivers up your spine.

“What do I do to traitors, _Kitten_?”

“You torture them until they beg for death, Boss.”

“YES!,” he shouts, fist pumping in the air as he spins to lift his leg onto the couch cushion beside you. He cradles your cheeks and pinches one of them, drawing a smirk from you, your eyes drawing down to the sweating bottle of water in your hands as you rip the label clean off. It flutters to the hardwood floor onto the toe of your filthy Chuck.

 

“What the **FUCK**  would possess someone to be so stupid? Hm?,” the Boss screams, his face red with rage. He spins away as if unable to control himself and raises his 1911 to point it at Thing 1’s forehead.

“What would make them _think_ , for even one **SECOND**. That they. Would.  LIVE?” The Boss cackles, finding it hilarious that these two thought themselves more clever than him.

“You’re a narcissistic _piece of SHIT_ ,” Thing 1 one spits. Pops punches her straight in the face. A gurgle of foamy spit seeps out of her mouth as blood flows from her nose. She spits onto the Boss’ shoe. He raises his gun and shoots her in the leg, her screams making your fucking brain hurt.

Thing 2 cries, her shoulders rising and falling, shaking her head. A thin line of bloody drool hangs from the open corner of her mouth as the flaps of skin tremble with her movement.

“ ** _OOH_** ,” the Boss calls, staggering theatrically - falling back toward his desk. “What a painful thing to say, Goldie. So. Fucking. **_Cold_** ,” he grins, motioning for Jonah to take Thing 1 away.

“What could I _possibly_ care for a **whore’s**  judgement?” The Boss ponders rhetorically, giggling afterward. You try to hold back your snort and cover your mouth, eyes shining with mirth. J winks at you, appreciating your amusement.

 

Feeling a little dizzy from the day’s events, you lean forward on the couch with your elbows on your knees and start to breathe in deep through your nose and out your mouth - the sound of screaming growing more faint with each breath.

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

_The basement. Why is it always the fucking basement?_ There are more than the two rooms you’ve seen, but you’ve never had the courage to explore. _Why take the risk?_

 

You pass through the hallway, slipping inside the door Jonah holds open for you as raw screams echo down the hallway. You thank him, moving to lean against the back wall, face turned away from the gruesome sight in the center of the room.

Thing 2 is strapped to an old fashioned electric chair that looks like it belongs in a prison: with thick leather straps and a metal cap that’s tilted up toward the ceiling. Her dress is pooled gold and crimson on the floor, her thin body looking too-small in the large chair. Every inch of visible skin is bruised, bleeding, mutilated, or so badly burned it bubbles with puss.

Turning your head away at a brutal punch to her face that knocks her head to the side - a line of bloody saliva seeps out of her mouth and toward the floor. Her head remains to the side, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. No sound comes from her, the line of drool weighing closer to the floor.

The Boss spits in her face before he turns his head, real slow, to see who came in. His eyes pin you to the back wall - no one home beneath those oceanic blues. You suppress a shiver and wait patiently, leaning up from the wall.

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

****

The Boss doesn’t say anything, just sits on the stairs outside with his bloody forearms arms dripping down his fingertips. The _PLINK_ . . . _PLINK_  of scarlet tapping onto the cement lulls you into a strange sense of calm. His elbows rest on his knees, black sweatpants easily hiding the more egregious stains.

“Sixteen phone calls were made from Thing 1’s cell to the number Edward sent me. It’s a clear link. The other one got into the office to make the final call from The Hill. She gave a sexual favor to a Club there to get access to the office. We’ve got the Club en route for further questioning. The motive is unclear.”

“Nice work. Detective,” he says, flicking his right wrist to splatter a several drops of blood onto the staircase.

You pull a cigarette from the quickly diminishing box and light it, offering it to J. He sighs, a rise and fall of his chest before he takes it. Breathing in deep - his cheeks pull in, cheekbones jutting out as you take in the dusting of stubble along his jawline. His bloody fingers stain the paper of the cigarette. You reach out to run a thumb along his jaw, smiling when the stubble prickles your finger, making a bristling sound.

His eyes close at the touch and he sighs the smoke out his nose - two lines streaming out into the early morning air. He hands the cigarette back to you, eyes slowly opening. He watches you take the cancer stick back, your fingers smudging the blood more, mouth sucking at the filter to pull a drag into your lungs. The air between you feels strange, like you’ve passed some kind of unspoken test.

J stands, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you against his body, kissing you just as you’re about to exhale - some of the smoke entering his mouth, some burning out your nose instead.

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

He lets himself in using his own key. It’s a given he’d have his own. You’re not surprised when you pad barefoot into the living room (in a towel), gun raised at the intruder to see his naked-lipped grin.

“Boss,” you say casually, lowering the weapon. You pull your wet hair over your shoulder so it drips onto the towel instead of the floor. The Boss takes you _all_ in, waggles his would-be eyebrows suggestively.

 

He looks striking - a refined evolution of the psychotic gangster you’ve come to know. His skin’s been tinted so it looks more average in color instead of paper white. His cheek tattoo is nearly invisible unless you’re looking for it. His eyes look brighter, less tired. _An expert makeup artist can do a lot to change someone’s appearance._

His colorless lips is what draws closer - the lack of red making him seem so much more human, more approachable. You step closer, taking in his new look. An expensive tux hugs his figure, a simple red carnation tucked into the pocket.

His fingers are adorned with less rings - the tattoos covered there as well. He looks almost . . . normal. You marvel at the blond wig, smirking to see it’s in the same cut as his antifreeze green hair beneath.

“Like it?,” he asks seriously, chin tilted down _just so_  as he looks up at you, arms spread wide.

“You look good no matter what, Boss. But, honestly, I miss what’s underneath,” you smile, slipping the tips of your fingers beneath the waistband of his pants. He smirks at your answer and nips at your lips, once, twice, three times. His kiss is hot and searing, your answer must have pleased him. He runs his hands through your wet hair, taking in the change in color - fire ombré, red-to-blond. He hums against your lips, reaching for your hips.

“Change. Professional, but alluring,” he commands, sinking onto your couch. You start to strip the towel off after you lock the front door, the Boss’ eyes following you to your bedroom, confident beneath the Boss’ stare by now.

 

You slip into the bathroom to pull your long hair into a loose ponytail at the nape of your neck, leaving a long, twisting curl loose on either side of your face. A little concealer goes a long way to hide the tattoo the best you could. It was still somewhat visible - like the “J” on the Boss’ cheek just under his left eye. Applying makeup, the finished look is presentable yet sexy: Contour to change the look of your face, foundation to even the skin tone, nude lipstick and smoky violet eye-shadow.   

 

When Pops had talked you into the closet full of suits, you’d splurged on a specially tailored blazer that didn’t require an undershirt. It molded to your body with well-made lace panels from the elbow to the shoulder. The pants sported a larger lace frame from mid-shin to the very curve of your hip, tapering as it rose - clearly teasing. You’d gotten it in aubergine purple, wanting to save it for something special - a time when you needed the Boss to be happy with you.

While the blazer didn’t require an under-shirt, it did need a sticky bra so you didn’t end up looking like an uncultured cave-woman. Padding back into the bedroom, you step into the walk-in closet and pull the sticky bra out of the top drawer of the single dresser. You slip the cups on, pushing your breasts up and holding them for several seconds before carefully arranging your cleavage. Tugging the fitted pants on next, you gasp at the feel of two hands on your waist.

“Jesus, J,” you laugh, a little unsettled at the scare. He hums in approval, working to slide his ringed hand flat against your belly, his mouth sucking on the taut skin of your neck. His palm moves down, past your bellybutton, into your underwear to cup your crotch. You tilt your head back, laughing at his ridiculousness.

“I _just_  got dressed,” you smirk, turning your head kiss his lower lip.

“ _Boss _,__ ” you sigh, working at his belt behind you as he fingers you, pulling your moisture up and over your clit to make it slick. You writhe against his fingers, not sure what to do when he stops your hands on his belt.

Without warning, he slams you against the wall and kisses you hot and hard, straddling your leg to rub his erection against you. You moan into his mouth, undulating your hips. He pulls your legs around his waist, carrying you into the bedroom to deposit you on the edge of the huge bed. Slipping your underwear down, he licks a line from your knee to your pussy, tongue delving in hungrily.

You keen at the unexpected attention, wetness soaking the Boss’ tongue as you watch him between your legs. _Was this his way of telling you something he wouldn’t say?_  With him, you’d never know, the thoughts fading as a your moans fill the room.

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

A pianist plays on the small, raised stage in the ballroom of Gotham Towers West. The tails of her suit extend past the bench, hanging elegantly behind her. The sound of the keys is calming. The music puts you at ease in this room filled with too much money and too little else.

 

The Boss chats with a small groups of men, talking animatedly. He captures the attention of each group, many of them smiling still once J leaves to mingle elsewhere. He gets in close proximity to Bruce Wayne. The Press arrive promptly at 8 P.M., driving the crowd back as they hover over Wayne with raised microphones.

 

The Boss pauses at the edge of the dance floor, the opening notes of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” filling the room. The beautiful piece makes your chest clench with emotion. Despite the beautiful women milling around the exquisite room, J silently offers his arm to _you_ , his eyes on Bruce Wayne. You take his forearm, raising an eyebrow when he leads you onto the dance floor, the tug of a smile at your lips.

With J’s right hand at your waist and your left clasped in his - he leads you skillfully around the dance floor. Pulling you close until you’re pressed into the front of his tux, the side of his face _just_  grazes yours.

“We haven’t fucked,” you whisper into his ear, gasping when the Boss dips you backward.

“Shh,” he warns, biting at the lobe of your ear. He blends in expertly, his naked lips skimming your throat as he pulls you back up.

“I’m just sayin’,” you reply, staring straight into his face, your fingertips pushing up into the hair at the nape of his neck. It feels important to tell him aloud even if he pretends he doesn’t care. _There is something about his avoidance of the topic. Is it jealousy after-all?_

“You’re pushin’ meeee,” he sing-songs, spinning you away and then toward himself, catching your hips. “You don’t. Wanna. Do that,” he says real slow, his grill so close to your face you can see the white of his teeth around the jagged metal.

There’s something freeing, coming loose in your chest as he slow dances with you. Your mind flashes images, memories: _the grafitti on the crosswalk sign, Trix dying on the sidewalk, Cole’s vengeful glare _.__

The classical music pulses slowly around you as your eyes flutter over the sea of beautiful dresses worth more than your car. You’re the only one wearing a suit - but, he still chose _you_.

A single piece of wig hair dislodges in the breeze of your swaying and tickles the bridge of your nose. Once in a rhythm, his eyes close. You can feel him relax, the calm before the chaos. The barest of smiles graces your lips when his fingers flex on your hip.

 

As Mr. Wayne’s press appearance draws to a close, reporters snap a few pictures of Gotham’s richest and most elite in attendance. After the vultures have had their fill they exit, leaving you and the Boss to the mercy of the musician, the first Movement of the “Sonata” still in-play.

After a time, the song tempo hops and skips, the Boss’ movement matching the music. The tempo doubles, triples, and he leads you faster and faster until you’re laughing quietly, joy bubbling into your chest. His movements are suave and graceful, a skilled dancer for-sure. _Has he taken ballroom dancing in another life?_

 

“Still sweet on me, Kitten?,” he smirks, leaning toward you to nip at your neck, a laugh tickling out of you at his behavior in the midst of this fancy ball full of Gotham’s top notch.

“You _know_  it, Daddy,” you whisper back, licking the “J” tattoo just beneath his eye - the barest brush of tongue against skin.

Keeping pace with him the best you can as the temp remains incredibly quick, you start to pant a little as his quick feet scuttling you around the large room. You gaze beyond his shoulder to see others in a similar quick-paced shuffle, grateful not be the only two _crazy_  enough to keep up with the pianist.

Mr. Wayne leads _both_  of his dates onto the marble dance floor - a date on each arm - as he dances with them simultaneously. You close your eyes to keep from rolling them at his attention-seeking antics. Why would the richest man in the city need _more_  attention?

 

Grateful when the song begins to wind down, you smile when the Boss leads you into an elegant bow, your chest heaving from the exertion. People on the outer ring of the floor clap merrily as Wayne and the others follow suit, bowing out. You slip past the Joker to take up your post once more on the outskirts, ignoring his grab at your ass as you drift by.

 

The comfort of the gun snug against the tuck of your spine has your muscles relaxing. You watch Bruce Wayne make his rounds, shaking hands, kissing cheeks as he passes through the crowd. It’s almost time to make your move.

The Boss does little now except watch the crowd and chat people up. As he passes through the room, he attracts several admirers. Many whisper behind their glasses of wine, but one bold redhead in a sleek gray dress walks boldly toward him.

You can see the lines of her fit abs beneath the skintight dress, a sapphire necklace sparkling in the chandelier light at her throat. Her teeth are even and white when she smiles - a shark in the shallows. She touches his elbow, withdrawing when he turns, a-would-be eyebrow raising at her attention. She talks her way into his pants, you can tell by the flirtatious way she holds her body - the small touches here and there. You push the sting of jealousy down and worry your bottom lip between your teeth - forced to keep an eye on him and the new woman.

A waiter with tray of booze flits by and you grab a long-stemmed glass, tipping the expensive champagne into your mouth. The bubbles fizz against your tongue, sweet and tangy. You scowl at the taste and leave the empty glass on another waiter’s tray. Turning back, he’s gone, the redhead nowhere in sight.

Working your jaw in anger, you pretend to head for the restroom as you listen carefully down a dimly lit hallway just off the ballroom. This is so cliche’, you’re about to fucking _explode_. _What’s he thinking?_   _You have a ** **job****  to do and he’s sneaking off with some bimbo_. Anger flares again and you clench your jaw to keep from putting a fist through the wall. 

You listen at the first door, careful to keep moving so no one catches you eavesdropping. You can hear a hushed argument, neither voice familiar. Moving on, you listen at the second door as a woman’s soft voice filters through. You grab the handle, keeping it squeezed all the way to the side to make it silent as you s-l-o-w-l-y push the door open, peeking _just_  inside the crack. The redhead is giving the Boss a lap-dance as he sits on a chaise lounge, his mouth closed as he calmly watches her slip her dress down her shoulders as she straddles his lap. You close the door and shove and rage down, forgetting to keep the handle turned as it clicks closed.

 

Shoving the door to the bathroom open, two older women glance at you as they  hustle out of the way. A door in the hallway opens with a distinct, _squeeak_  - a heavy feeling clinging to your skin immediately. You can _feel_  his fucking eyes on you from down the hall. 

Locking the door behind you, your eyes close at the hard knock following suit, knowing it’ll be him. He knows you saw.  _Yeah, well,_ ** _fuck him_**.

Wiping angrily at the tears that well in your eyes, you ruin your makeup. Ripping paper towel from the dispenser, you wet it and wring it out until it rips, removing all the makeup from your face. Tossing the towel hard in the garbage, the edge of the garbage bag sinks into the shiny chrome wastebasket.

Pulling your pistol from its holster, you grip the edges of the sink and stare into the mirror, the gun clinking softly against the ceramic. You look as exhausted as you feel, gripping the sink as if it’s some sort of life support system. Your eyes leak as they close. You suck a deep, shaking breath in through your nose.

A toilet flushes and you pause, turning back to look at the stalls. A young woman emerges, startling when she sees you. You avoid her eyes and stare into the mirror, holding your pistol tight against the sink, palming the safety on the grip. The young woman remains quiet, washing her hands before walking to the door.

You can hear the slip of the lock before the door opens - the slow _whoosh_  of the hinge as it sweeps closed behind her. Grinding your teeth, you keep the pistol hidden on the side of the sink, deciding. _Do you stay and do the job? Leave? How do you get home? You could leave with someone else_. . .

The click of the lock is loud this time. You can feel him before you see him reflected in the mirror, his eyes on you. 

“You’re angry,” he says, as if he understands. As if he could fathom what you feel at any given moment besides anger and hate. You say nothing, continuing to stare at your reflection, hating him, hating yourself, and ready to blow it all to fucking pieces.

“What do you think we are, Kitten?,” he asks calmly. He comes closer until you stand upright, your muscles coiled with the tension needed to weather this storm. Your gun is visible now in the reflection of the mirror. When you don’t answer his question, he advances. Moving to stand behind you, he smells like flowery perfume.

Clutching your gun - finger ready to pull the trigger, the safety squeezed tight on the handle, he reaches his palm out, waiting for you to hand it to him. You don’t, refusing to look at him, refusing to answer his question. He reaches out, all calm and collected, peeling your fingers off the weapon. You yank it back, holstering it before he can take it away: Turning your back toward the wall, you lean back against it to block his access to the holster.

“Answer,” he says, tilting his head to let you know there will be a consequence.

“Nothing,” you say, proud when your voice doesn’t waver.

“ _Wrong_ ,” he tisks, grabbing your chin to pull your eyes up to his face.

“ **We**  are _chaos_ ,” he answers, snaking an arm around your body to grab your gun. You push yourself back against the wall, trapping his arm between your back and the wall.

“We are the loose string on their tailored clothes, the pain beneath their smiles, and the fear they have yet to feel.”

You shake your head, disagreeing with him, a tear slipping down your face.

“ _You_  are those things, J. Not me. **I’m**  just the convenient body, the gun-for-hire. A _disposable_  fucking resource,” you laugh bitterly, yanking your face away from his grasp.

“I’m done with this right now. I’m leaving,” you say resolutely, grimacing when he body-blocks you from being able to move away from the wall. Pressure builds behind the bridge of your nose up into your eyes - the start of a goddamn migraine.

“ **We**  are going to _finish_  the job we came here to do. And then, **we**  are leaving together.”

“No,” you whisper, swallowing as the Boss sucks a long breath in through his nose.

“Do you prefer a lie? That I’ll never fuck anyone else, but you? I can say that, if it’ll get you to do _your job_ ,” he hisses viciously into your ear. Anger burns beneath your skin, makes your face red hot. Your hand flies to hit him, but he catches it, twisting your wrist painfully. He keeps a hold on your wrist, pressing his body harder against you, your head smacking hard against the wall as his nose nuzzles the hair beside your ear.

“I don’t want you,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face, pulling on the old phrase and meaning it with every cell in your body. He growls, the sound turning into a shout. Abruptly, he slams his forehead into the mirror, shattering it. A line of red scrapes just shy of the “damaged” tattoo. J’s chest heaves as he turns to face you again, his shaking hands grabbing the sides of your face in earnest, his demeanor morphing.

“Don’t. Do this. Now,” he breathes, gasping against your lips. You don’t understand what’s going on, why he’s reacting this way. His hands shake hard. First, you attempt to peel his hands off your face, but seeing him like this - all undone - it makes you grip them instead. As soon as you do, his eyes drift closed and his grill gleams in the bright florescent lighting of the bathroom as his teeth grind. He looks wounded, the shaking of his hands reminding you of the tattoo parlor floor, the warehouse office, and a million small moments in between then and now. You’re not sure any other breathing human being has witnessed the _seconds_  of vulnerability, humanity in him.

 

And then it hits you like a 40-caliber bullet; _He believes his own lie_. Large tears form in your lids, sliding slowly down your face as you stare at him, his chest heaving with pants as he grips your face. He leans his bleeding forehead against yours, his eyes still closed. You squeeze his hands, a sob escaping your mouth at the heartache.

“Stay,” he breathes. His thumbs rub your tears into your skin, pushing them over the curve of your jaw. “Please,” he exhales, eyes opening, _pain_  staring back at you.

“ **We**? There was  never a _we_. There is a  you and a _me_ ,” you say, pulling his hands off your face, moving away from him to pace the floor in front of the stalls.

“We aren’t a . . a _thing_! There is  NO US,” you say fervently, stopping in front of him, your eyes leaking as you talk, voice shaking. “ **That**  exists only in your fucked up head. If we are something more than convenience, Boss, that’s fucking news to me.”

His eyes gleam at you, body spinning to punch the second mirror. You startle at the display of anger, wincing when he grabs your neck.

A knock sounds on the door. A moment of silence as he pushes his thumb into your windpipe, you do nothing to stop him. He makes a sound, a pained whine, teeth clenched before he sinks his forehead onto your shoulder, his hand releasing your neck to grab the back of your neck and your waist as if for balance.

His breathing is too fast - he’s lost control. You let your legs go weak, sliding down the wall. The Boss follows as you wrap your arms around him and pull him against your body, holding him tight as you cry.

You pull the piece of white cloth from the pocket of his tux, the red flower falling out as you swipe the expensive fabric over the Boss’ face to remove his makeup mask. White skin peeks out from the tinted foundation, his tattoos dark beneath it all. He’s quiet as he watches you, his hands fisted in your blazer, creating a gap between your body and the fabric. Your sticky bra is showing.

You offer a half-hearted smile at the face you love and hate staring back at you. He peels the wig off and tosses it to the floor, raking his fingers through the green strands. Your index finger traces his pale lips.

“ _This_  is you,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss his forehead, tongue swiping over the new cut. He moves, surging into your lap to claim your mouth. He groans, satisfied, sucking in a breath of air through his nose before he pulls away abruptly. Lifting the red carnation from the floor, he glances at you sideways before tucking it into the hair by your ear. He swipes at your neck, where your tattoo is, rubbing the makeup away until it shows, dark and proud. The skin is red and irritated at all the attention. A sad laugh escapes you - a wheeze of sound that makes him smirk and kiss your chin, jaw, lips.

And then he’s standing, moving away. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and presses “send” on a text he had typed and waiting. You can hear shouting from down the hall and he grins, offering you a hand. Rolling your eyes, you grin anyway and take it. He pulls you up, off the floor and toward the door.

When you emerge from the bathroom, a small cue of women start to scream when they get a good look at the Boss - his green hair, paper-white skin and tats on display. The redhead gasps and sinks down the wall, her hand over her mouth at the sight of him.

“ **HA HA HAAAA** ,” the Boss cackles, catching an automatic rifle a giant panda in a tux tosses to him, emerging from an exit on the stairwell just outside the dance floor. Jogging into the ballroom, J sprays the ceiling with bullets as fellow Clubs surge into Gotham Towers West: giant animal masks smiling at the screaming crowd as all hell breaks loose.

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

You reach Amusement Mile in minutes. The colored lights pop beautifully against the night sky. Excited screams fill the air as you step out of the white sedan, the tantalizing smell of fair food sucking into your nostrils as you take a deep breath.

Edward Colt watches you, smiling thoughtfully. You smirk in return, chewing at your bottom lip. He glances quickly at the hint of cleavage through the keyhole opening of your royal blue dress. A seafoam piece of beach glass hangs around your neck, the matching earrings make you feel feminine. Confident about your date night, you let Goldilocks run a careful finger over a long curl of your dyed hair.

“It suits you,” he says, jade eyes moving to yours. You smile wide at the compliment and lean up on your toes, tilting your black-cherry glossed mouth toward his. Before your lips meet, you pause, letting him choose. His fingertips are feather-light as they brush your jaw and down your neck, tilting his face to kiss you. It’s just a brush of lips, once, twice, and then he’s drinking you down, humming his approval when your tongue slides along the seam of his lips.

“Snazzy pants,” you wink, pulling on his hand, leading him toward the ticket booth. Colt seems a little nervous to be here - but it isn’t as if J is going to jump out and yell, “AHA!” at your being together.

“Are you complimenting my slacks or what’s inside them?,” he asks, a sly smile on his lips.

“Both,” you laugh at the cheeky question. This kind of happiness - the easy smiles, eager kisses, and flirting - you like about Edward Colt. He is the sun to the Boss’ shade.

 

Flashing your tattoo gets you and Colt access to the entire park. Squealing in glee, you yank him toward the cotton candy booth first. Taking a lick of the large pink fluffball of sweetness, you grin like a giddy child, holding it out to your date. Colt shakes his head at you, paying for your sticky snack. He declines your offer to share. Frowning at his lack of cooperation, you pull a long spindly piece off and wrap it around your finger. Stopping in front of him, you stick your finger against his lips and smile indulgently. With your tongue sticking _just_  between your lips, you try and stick your finger in his mouth. Goldilocks turns his head, smiling all the while, until you succeed and get your finger in. He bites down on it, using that expert tongue to slide the candy ring off.

You walk hand-in-hand until Edward spots the tallest roller coaster, the one sporting the Amusement Mile sign. He grins and yanks you into the line for it, stealing the cone of cotton candy as you peer up at the tallest crest of the track. He takes a large piece between his teeth and chews, handing it back to you.

Smiling up at him, you kiss him instead, swiping your tongue inside his candy-coated mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, particularly the very beginning and end scenes. I am, however, happy with the Wayne charity ball! It's strange how your brain puts things in you never consciously decided to add (or even fucking thought about until that moment).


	21. The Tide it Takes Me Away From You and it Brings Me Back Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING* This chapter contains the implication of torture, graphic violence, abuse and sex.

(Chapter title is a line from the XYLØ song “[Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PbGS-OjX8V0)”)

 

**Chapter 21: The Tide it Takes Me Away From You and it Brings Me Back Again**

****

The apartment is luxuriously cool at a consistent 68 degrees Fahrenheit; The persistent _whir whir_ of the central air creating a hum of white noise attempting to lull you back to sleep. An obnoxious  ding has your hand flailing for your phone on the bedside table. Checking the time, 2:47 A.M.m you groan in irritation. Squinting, you see a notification back-lit on the lock screen:

 

_COLT: It’s me._

 

A knock sounds on your door, startling you. Sitting up, you toss the covers off your legs, toeing your slippers on. Hurriedly, you wrestle a men’s t-shirt on and sling the holster over your shoulders. Lifting your Browning into your dominant hand, you jog to the door. Gazing through the peephole, you see Colt standing in the hall, looking worse-for-wear. A large bruise darkens his cheekbone, his hair disheveled.

 

Throwing the lock, you open the door, using your foot to keep it from opening all the way. Your pistol is hidden by the door. He’s your informant, sure, but this breaks the routine. Anything strange like this and your hackles are up, instinct to survive overriding all else.

“What the fuck’s going on?,” you whisper, the hallway dead-silent at this time of the morning. Even gangsters need sleep now and then.

“Get dressed,” he whispers back, leaning against the outer wall with a haggard expression. “ ** _Hurry up_** ,” he adds, after only a second, turning to glance around.

 

He looks like shit: clothes rumpled, goatee gone and replaced by stubble that’s sprouted over his jawline like weeds. He hasn’t shaven in days; You last saw him two weeks ago. You eye his current state of unrest and contemplate what to do next.

“Come in,” you say, weary of the neighbors. Newtown Skyline apartments is owned by the Boss. While he keeps his people comfortable and close, you only know a small percentage of them. Colt squeezes in, turning to lock the door before you have the chance to move.

“What happened?,” you ask, moving to your bedroom to tug a discarded pair of black jeans on. Socks, boots and bra are next; You’re ready in under a minute. You tie your hair back and shrug the shoulder holster back on, checking the Browning for a chambered round before you holster it.

 

“ _Spit it out_  already,” you whisper loudly, grabbing his shoulders. He grabs at your hands and squeezes them, licking his bottom lip.

“He’s got one of yours. Brown hair, beard, older,” Colt says quietly, his hand trembling as he swipes his hair back from his face. You freeze, eyes darting to his face to soak in his expression.

 

_No._

__

_No, no no._

__

_When was the last time you saw him? His hand stuffed into a greasy bag while you rode shotgun._

__

“You don’t understand. Roderico _has_  him, right now. He’s had him for **seven hours**. This is the first I’ve been able to get the fuck out of there. That fat fuck wrangled me into it because I was in the fucking stash warehouse taking inventory of the drugs when he barged in with your man. He’s in bad shape, but no one fucking knows. _No one_ knows, not even Falcone. How are you going to get him out without them knowing they have a leak?”

 

You check your belt for the knife, motioning for Edward to lead the way.

 

“You can’t give me away on this; Your Boss can’t fucking know. He’ll go in guns blazing and they’ll know someone tipped him off. Do this on your own.” Colt’s too eager to get you to do this in a hurry without backup. It feels all wrong, but you’re not about to blow this wide open and risk having him killed; __Either__  of them.

 

You turn and grab his shoulders, forcing him to look at you. “I get it, okay. You’re fucking scared. You’re not in the business of beating the shit out of people, torturing them. I **get** that, Edward. But what I’m not going to do is let _you_  dictate how **I handle**  this. Do you understand?”

 

He curses and twists out of your grasp, pulling on his hair. “I’m taking you and _only_  you, do you understand me? There’s TWO guys guarding. That’s it. And **_I’M_**  one of them!” You’ve never seen him this rattled and that’s okay; It’s more believable, more real. But you just don’t know whether they really have him or if this is a trap.

“Do you have proof?” He turns on you and points a finger in your face, anger a rough mask rolling over his features.

“DON’T FUCK WITH ME! You wanted infor-fucking-mation and I just gave you a _briefcase full_. Erase our text history,” he demands as he heads toward the door, unlocking it before swinging it open.

****

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

The car ride is silent, each second feeling like an eternity. You watch your surroundings closely, plotting while Edward drives a distance ahead with his headlights off. He stops at a 24-hour gas station to pick up two coffees and a cheap cardboard box of mass-produced doughnuts. You wait in your car, fingers tapping nervously on the steering wheel when it dawns on you. The other Falcone thug sent him for fucking breakfast - that’s how he got out. You scowl, feeling the minutes _tick by_.

 

Colt glances around and jumps back in the white car, speeding away toward Coventry. _Jesus Christ, Falcone’s that close? Right across the fuckin’ bridge._

__

Edward calls your phone and you squeeze it to your ear with your shoulder hunched.

“So there’s one guy in there, right?”

“Yes, Roderico.”  

“Listen to me. You go in. I call his phone until I get nice and close to my man. I’m going to shoot, so be close to cover. I take Roderico out, grab my guy and get the fuck out. You tell your Boss, I tell mine.”

“Alright,” he says. After a tense, awkward moment he adds, “Be careful.”

“You too, Goldilocks,” you say with just a little wry smile before you hang up and watch his car veer around a curve and scurry into a large parking lot.

****

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

The warehouse is moderate in size. Aisles and aisles of crates, barrels and drums sit relatively neatly, waiting to be shipped or moved. There are two main sections of rows with a large open space in the center. The Boss has at least fifty places just like this. No office, no second floor, it’s too small for that. Just the stash of shit and some kind of organization with bodies in and out to move the merch along.

 

The pungent stench of piss hits your nose as you press “redial” once more. The loud splattering sound of urination against a hard surface easily hides the smothered sound from your phone as you make the call over and over. The receiving phone rings somewhere nearby, muffled as if in someone’s pocket. An obese man of average height, Roderico, snorts mucus as he finishes pissing in the corner of the room. He hocks a loogie into the same corner he’s pissed in before stuffing the rest of a powdered doughnut into his wide, fleshy mouth. Powdered sugar snows along the front of his shirt as he swipes his hand on his black pants, leaving tapering white smears.

 

There’s a crinkle of papers as Edward lifts a pile of what look to be invoices and crosses something off with a pen, gazing out over a large saran-wrapped pyramid of cocaine on a wooden pallet. The drugs are partially sorted into smaller piles with orange tags on them. Edward moves toward a paper cup of coffee sitting on the ledge of a tall shelf of shipping containers.  

Roderico laughs loudly, more crumbs with white sugar raining down on his maroon shirt as he peels another doughnut out of the white box. His sleeves are rolled up and over his thick forearms, exposing a hairy expanse of skin. His mustache is too thin and wiry for the size of his wide, round face. Low eyebrows and a short, fat nose make him look like a human pug. He’s one ugly motherfucker. Thick sausage fingers pluck a third doughnut from the box in as many minutes. He motions for Goldilocks to take over with Donny.

 

They have Pops tied to a chair, both eyes are swollen shut. Blood, snot, and saliva cover the front of his once-white dress shirt. Crimson drips thick and oozing from one of his hips. A line of blood trails from beneath his pant leg onto the cement floor. It’s creating a small pool beneath his expensive loafer. From the look of it he’s either been stabbed or shot. The way he’s leaning heavily to one side tells you it’s going to be hard to get him the fuck out of here unless Roderico is dying or dead.

 

Colt takes a sip of his coffee and stares Roderico down, savoring the first bite of a cheap doughnut.

“Hey! Pretty Boy,” Roderico snarls, yellow doughnut pieces spewing from his mouth as he yells. “NOW!”

Edward scowls and flips him the finger, “Fuck off, Fatass. I’m not a bouncer. I don’t work for _you_.”

“What was that?” Roderico asks threateningly, advancing on Edward. The fat man tosses the remnants of his breakfast into his mouth as he closes in.

 

 _Perfect, Colt!_ You pull the knife from your waistband and stay low to the ground. A thick metal framing of shelves sits in the aisle before the gap between the two ends of the warehouse. The chair sits about four feet away from the aisle with Pops sunken to one side. Climbing over one of the shelving structures to get closer, you pause to check on Roderico and Edward.  

 

Edward turns his body and waves the larger man off.

“Did you even tell The Roman yet?,” Colt asks casually, steadfast in the face of the brute stalking toward him.

“Are you questioning how I do my job?,” Roderico roars, throwing a wild punch toward Edward that misses when Colt dodges.

“You are fucking useless, Pretty Boy. Go, get more food while I do the real work.”

“Fuck off. You go since you’re always fucking hungry.”

 

You duck behind Pops and feel for a pulse, shushing him with a quiet breath into his ear, making quick work of the zip-ties with your knife. “Pops. Stay quiet,” you breathe. He exhales and blood gurgles out. You eyes burn and saline floods your mouth, the precursor to tears. Gritting your teeth, you push them back and pull at the anger of what Roderico’s done to him. _Don’t let him fucking die on me _.__ A memory, quick and clear flutters to the front of your mind:

_“Ohhhh my God! You’re the best,” you muttered, stuffing your face eagerly with the fast food. He laughed, a full-bellied sound that filled the car and made you smile._

_“The Boss doesn’t eat this shit. I thought you might enjoy it,” he admitted quietly, stuffing another handful of fries into his mouth._

 

Tears threaten to obscure your view as you blink them away. You breathe in deep through your nose as you slide Pops’ arm across the back of your shoulders and heft him up to his feet. He wheezes quietly as you hoist him up and he shuffles forward with a foot. _I’m getting him out._ You blink hard, the memories hammering with your heart as you move agonizingly slow to get him to cover before Roderico notices.

__

A second step. Three. Four.

 

_“This place is fucking insane! Did you see this, Donny?,” you squeal, running into the room to grab at the Suit. He laughed and swatted at you, pretending to get some wrinkles out of the sleeve of his jacket though he’d smiled widely._

_“I know, kid. The Boss spares little expense for those willing to do his bidding.”_

__

Donny bites his bottom lip and tries not to make any noise when he steps with his injured hip. Step five. Six. He shoves his fist into his mouth as you struggle to follow the deep shadows back toward the aisle you crept from. _He’s going to be fine._ Seven.

__

_“Kid?,” Pops asked, walking toward you._

_You could hear the footfalls, but couldn’t see him - couldn’t see, couldn’t speak._

_Pops yelled, “Hey! You O.K.?”_

__

Eight. He can’t help but limp so slow it’s torture as you keep turning your head to make sure Roderico doesn’t notice. Nine. Donny tries to stop, but you urge him forward, squeezing his hand slung across your shoulders.

“Almost there, Pops,” you coax, “keep moving.” Ten. _I’m getting him the fuck out._

Eleven. “Christ, no more extra fries,” you whisper to him, struggling to half-carry him. Twelve.

__

_He stayed behind to make sure you could walk on your own. A moan was the only warning before you threw up on the pavement._

_“What the fuck happened, Kid?”_

 

“C’mon grandpa, two more steps,” you breathe. Twelve. Using one hand, you dial his phone again, giving Edward the signal that shit’s about to get intense, keeping the background noise going to keep Roderico busy.

 

Thirteen.

 

A shout has your heart stopping, but you turn to see Roderico swinging at Edward again. Turning back to Donny, you duck him into the closest aisle by sinking to your knees to coax him onto the floor. He hisses as he sinks down with his back against the aisle structure, favoring the uninjured hip. He’s wheezing as he breathes, leaning so far to the side he’s laying down. Blood seeps down his chin and you bite your lip hard, pulling the anger up and out of your cells like a shield.

“Don’t you fucking die on me, Pops,” you whisper fiercely, helping him sit back up.

****

_Pops stepped beside you to tap Red in the head and chest. The Boss sneered at the two on the floor, hooting in exhilaration at your fast take-down._

 

You sit up into a squat in front of him, catching him as he falls forward.

“No,” he whispers, trying to push at you.

“ _Shh_ ,” you exhale, taking a closer look at his hip. They fucking shot him. Anger burns just beneath the surface of your skin, your face flushes hot with the vengeance you’re about to unleash.

“I’m getting you out,” you whisper, yanking his belt through the loops of his dress pants. Blood has coagulated on it, leaving bright, shiny smears against his dark slacks. You slip the belt down, toward his hip before you tighten it. He groans in pain, head falling back against the thick concrete pillar. Squeezing his hand once, you pull your Mark III, crouching as you squat your way several aisles over, further away from where Donny is.

 

Without warning, you raise your gun and shoot at Roderico, nailing him in the back twice. Blood sprays out from the wound, the bullets sinking clean through his shoulder and side. He cries out, pulling his gun at the same time - faster than you’ve seen any fat man move. He falls to his knees as he returns fire, but you’re already ducking to avoid the bullets. Shouting in anger, Roderico sinks forward onto his hands and sags down. The fatass yells at Edward, “FIRE, FIRE!”

 

Colt removes a pistol from a rear holster on his pants, chambering a round before he puts a bullet into Roderico’s bald head. The top corner of his scalp opens like a fucking cantaloupe; His brains making a sick splattering sound as they leak out over the poured concrete floor. You gag, stomach lurching before you force yourself to your feet.

“Jesus Christ,” you whisper.

You stare at Colt and he stares at you across the open space. The tension is so thick it feels hard to breathe as you stare, waiting. He holsters his pistol first. You mirror the movement.

“You’re fucking amazing,” you laugh, in shock while Edward starts tossing shit around the warehouse to make it look like a fight took place.

 

Running back to Pops, you sling his arm back across your shoulders and attempt to get him up. He’s barely conscious now and no help at all. He’s so fucking heavy, it’s difficult to get him into a standing position. Colt tosses the coffee, wrecking some of the warehouse shelves to make it look like there was an epic struggle. He kicks the chair Donny was in over and digs in Fatass’ pockets to retrieve Donny’s phone. He tosses it toward you.

 

Catching it, you slip it into your back pocket and try again to get Pops up. You groan under the pressure of Donny’s body until Goldilocks finally makes it to you, hoisting Pops up, taking most of his weight. He stops with Donny at the doorway before he eases him down and turns to you. For a scrawny little shit, it’s a good thing he’s strong. _Must be all those veggie omelets._

 

“I need you to shoot me. Graze my arm.” Your face scrunches up, you don’t want to do it. He stares at you, waiting. You curse, pull your Mark III and follow him - waiting for him to position himself in the vicinity of Fatass’ cooling body. He points to his forearm, positions his body, pretending to hold his pistol.

Frustrated, you shout, “COLT! Hold your arm away from your fucking torso.” He holds it out to the side. You aim down the sight of your pistol. POP POP POP, it takes three shots to graze the skin of his forearm. He cringes, yanking the ripped sleeve up to see a relatively harmless, but angry red scrape.

 

Goldilocks hoists Pops into the back seat of your car. You start the engine before you grab two handfuls of Colt’s shirt, pulling him toward you. Without giving him a choice, you kiss him hard and intensely for just a moment before you pull away.

“I fucking owe you, Goldilocks,” you whisper against his mouth.

“I know,” he quirks an exhausted smile. “Go.”  

 

With Donny unconscious in the back seat, you speed out of the gate, breaking it open as you frantically relay a message to Dr. Mickelson. “I’ll meet you at Amusement Mile, _ten fucking minutes ago _,__ ” you say, voice shaky with the adrenaline surge dissipating from your veins.

 

You call the Boss using Donny’s phone. He answers on the first ring.

__“_ WHERE the FUCK have you been? _”__

“Boss,” you say, breathless. You can hear him grinding his fucking teeth, the sound sending your spine walking up your neck. He’s silent, waiting.

“When was the last time you saw Pops?”

“GET to the FUCKING POINT before I lose my patience,”J yells as if he hasn’t already.

“I have Pops, but he’s in bad shape. Roderico Martelli captured him in Coventry. Roderico’s dead. Mickelson is going to meet me at Amusement Mile where I’ll fill you in.”

“ _Good _,”__ is all he says before the steady tone of a dead line greets your ears.  

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

Your head snaps to the side with the force of his slap, your cheek stinging. You can feel the tenderness already. _How silly of you to think he’d be glad you saved someone without giving your informant away._

 

“You. You just _can’t_  seem to stop yourself from fucking up lately, Kitten.”

 

You refuse to look at him. Standing still, you brace yourself. He makes a show of stretching his arms up over his head, sinewy muscle moving beneath his skin. You take in his crazed eyes - the scent of blood in the air already. He’s a shark, coming in for the kill. He fakes a punch, easily swiping your leg out from under you when you go to block with your forearm. He tisks and shakes his head in disappointment as you fall to the floor, cursing in pain as your ass meets hardwood.

 

He’s looking for a fight, wants you to struggle. You’re not going to give it to him because you did agoodjob keeping Donny alive. You’re proud and **angry** _that he isn’t._

 

_Well, **fuck**  him._

 

“Why. Didn’t. You. Call?,” he asks, squatting in front of you.

“There wasn’t enough _time_ ,” you start, growling when he slaps you again, his rings stinging like a bitch.

“There’s always time.”

“No -” you start, using your forearm to block the third slap, your jaw tight. “LET ME FUCKING FINISH, J.”

He shoves you onto your back effortlessly, pinning you down. His fingernails dig into your face. He sneers down at you.

“Well?,” he asks, his teeth clenched together.

Scowling, you take a deep breath in through your nose and force your body to relax beneath the heavy weight of him. “If I called you, you would have went yourself. _YOU_ showing up would be an obvious tip off that Falcone’s got a rat. I couldn’t risk them killing Pops or losing my contact. There was ONE guy besides Edward. We fucking _handled_  it.”

He covers your mouth, his palm laying across your lips to silence you. Closing your eyes, you breathe in deep to keep calm, your anger starting to reach a boiling point.

“YOU,” he yells into your face, “DON’T. _GET_. To make  decisions for me. Clear?” You nod your head, scrambling to get up when he leans off you and stands, swatting you away with the brush of a hand in the air as the other swipes his hair away from his face.

 

Before you can make it out the door, his palm slams it closed. He cackles, eyes gleaming with amusement and cruelty. “You ain’t gettin’ off that easy, baby.”

 

_Asshole._

 

He holds his palm out and you hand your knife over, getting sick of this fucking proverbial dance of shame and punishment.

“I did a good job,” you say confidently. Your conscience tries to half your mouth, but the anger is boiling over, words tumbling out anyway. “I don’t care if I never get your praise. I don’t need your fucking approval.”

His head snaps to you, your knife open in his hand as he jabs it __so close__  to your side your shirt gets pinned to the wall. Your breathing lurches, body leaning back into the solid surface as he cages you in with his arms. J leans his forearm above your head and his face in toward yours.

“You can lie to yourself, Kitten. But you can’t lie to me,” his voice is deep, husky. You hate when he talks like that, it makes you crazy with want.

You laugh in his face, finding it rather funny. “You‘re a hypocrite.”

“HMM?” He humms, punching a hole in the wall beside your face.

“Give me some space,” you say evenly, yanking your knife out of the wall. He grins and chuckles at you. You grimace in disgust. _This is how you’re supposed to feel about him_ , you scold yourself.

“That’s it, Kitten. Get that feisty side out to play,” he purrs, his crimson lips parting as his tongue slips out, licking a line up the tattoo on your neck. You can feel him stiffening against your leg, his teeth pinching your skin like a pair of scissors. You don’t react, remaining limp against the wall as he tries to coax some kind of reaction from you again. He steps back, panting a bit, his eyes hot with equal parts sex and violence.

“You get. ONE. Free. Hit,” he grins maniacally, sinking to his knees in front of you on the wood floor of his office. He spreads his arms wide, waiting. The sculpted lines of his body are shadowed - pale skin in deep contrast with the ink and shadows of his muscle. His green hair looks as if its glowing at the tips beneath the low lamp light.

You roll your eyes at his theatrics, “No.”

“ _Boooring_ ,” he whispers loudly, arms still out. His teeth clench, his lips pulled back from his gums in a snarl.

“Why the fuck do you want me to hit you?,” you ask. You already know the answer. Sadomasochism.

“Do it.”

“No.”

“Pretty, pretty, prettyprettypretty,” he begs, pressing his palms together at his chin while he does it, whispering as he trails off.

You wrap your arm around his neck instead - your body colliding solidly with his. A surprised grunt slips from him as you land in his lap. He leans forward, positioning you beneath him. Your teeth find his neck and you bite hard, eliciting a gasped groan from the Prince of Chaos. With an interested hum, he bites you back, sucking hard at your throat.

 

You gasp in pain when he backhands you - your face, jolting to the side again. The taste of blood seeps against your teeth. You wipe at the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, diving for his mouth again. He licks at the broken skin by your teeth, grinding himself against the heat between your legs as you rock your body up against him. The soft skin of your mouth stings, the side of your face burning. He moans, sucking the blood from your lip as he sits up, pulling your legs tight around his hips. Getting high on the feeling of power when he moans, you shove him down onto his back, settling on top of him. His dick strains against his pants before your hands set it free. He starts to relax, just a little, his body still wound tight, ready for this.

 

Your knife lies forgotten on the floor, a foot away from where you fuck. Once. Twice. _Four_  times before J is sated, your mouths a mirror of blood and smeared lipstick before you’re dismissed for real this time.

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

****

You step out of his office looking like shit. Slipping your knife closed, you clip it back to your pants and spit to the side. Blood smears against the corner of your mouth from your split lip. His lipstick feels greasy on your skin. Using the corner of your men’s sleep shirt, you lift it up and wipe at your face. Jogging down the stairs of the warehouse in Sheldon Park, you sigh in exhaustion, face aching from the Boss’ wrath.

 

People move efficiently below as you descend the stairs. A pink fauxhawk catches your attention - almost invisible in the small sea of people. Her hair the only thing bright about her countenance today. Dressed in a men’s light blue button-down shirt and gray slacks, the pink fauxhawk accentuates her feminine features and mahogany eyes. She’s a little powerhouse in male cherry wood dress shoes, the clothes tailored to fit her body. She looks professional and put-together. _Charming_ , you smile to yourself - the new look has changed your nickname for her. Raising an eyebrow, you pause at the Diamond work station, swiping at your lip again.

 

Bark-colored eyes settle on you before she hoots and jogs around the long table, punching you excitedly in the shoulder, grinning.

 _Damn_ , she hits hard. You rub your shoulder to ease the ache.

“Awesome fucking job out there, man. You got our boy back _and_  took that fat fuck out!”

You blush at the compliment and wave it off, “my contact is to thank for that.”

“The Boss still fucked you up, proper, though, huh? What an asshole.”

“Charming,” you offer, motioning to her outfit, changing the subject. She smirks, a twitch of lips, her overall demeanor different.

“Two nicknames, then. Princess and Charming,” you say, gauging her reaction.

“Sure,” she agrees, winking. ”I like the nicknames,” she smiles, before she saunters toward her crew, yanking a clipboard from one of their hands. The guy sighs and thwacks her on the head with the pencil he’s holding, laughing heartily as she chases him around the table. _Idiots _.__

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

****

Your head is pulsing with pain as the Boss’ voice booms through your skull.

__

_“You’re being replaced.”_

__

An image of the redhead from the Wayne charity ball bores its way into your mind to aid the voice. You stick two paper-white Excedrine on your tongue and chug half a bottle of warm water. Laying back down, you cover your face with your pillow - the early afternoon sun making it difficult to sleep. You can’t have it too dark or else you’ll sleep the entire day away, an alarm set for 3 P.M. The Boss was clear, everyone was to be there on time. He had big plans.

 

_“I don’t need you anymore.”_

__

An image of the redhead in his lap, undulating above him as she slips the top of her dress down. You shake your head against the voice, yanking your phone off the nightstand table, searching through your contacts until you find him.

“Hi, Dr. Murphy? Any way you can squeeze me in today before 3?”

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

****

“I’m the patient, aren’t I? It’s my fucking choice, not his!”

“I understand, but it’s out of my hands.”

“The FUCK it is, Murphy.”

“Your job is putting too much stress on you. It’s negatively impacting your ability to think clearly. You’re having difficulty separating what is real from what is not.”

“So, what, then. Quit?,” you joke, turning the knob to his office door. “Coming to see you is a waste of time. If you can’t medicate the voices away, what’s the fucking point? You can’t _cure_  Schizophrenia. I’m not coming back.”

“Wait -”

You slam the door on his protest, fuming about the wasted time and the Boss interference with your life. Again.

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

****

You make it back to Amusement Mile at 2:59, running through the parking lot you killed Cole in months ago. You make it just in time. The Boss ignores you even when you slam your palms against the table he stands at to keep yourself from barreling into it. A small army of people surrounds him, the bottom floor of the warehouse filled to capacity.

 

_“You’re being replaced, Kitten. I don’t need you anymore.”_

__

You catch Pops’ eye across the table and force a smile. He winks, a smile of his own gracing his bearded face. He pulls a brown paper bag up from his lap and plops that shit on the table, taking out two greasy french fries before he slowly stuffs them in his mouth. You laugh out loud at his ridiculousness, glad to have him back, even if he’s on “desk duty” in a wheelchair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Replaced the misused word “clip” for the proper term, “magazine” in chapters 12, 18, and 19. TY to my husband for pointing that out! <3


	22. The Bitterness of One Who’s Left Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING* Contains abuse sexual content. NSFW!

(Chapter title inspired by the Smashing Pumpkins song “[Disarm](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Bj9wuvmyv8).”)

 ****Chapter 22: The Bitterness of One Who** ** ****’s Left Alone** **

 

The Boss is too close, vertical lines obscuring the cool blue of his irises. _Where the fuck are you?_ You quickly discover your feet feel tight like they’re bound together. You try to reach out, but your hands jerk and twist in place, tied at the wrist. It’s not like him to be here - wherever _here_  is - when you wake up.

Starting to panic, you turn your head, a startled noise escaping when you recognize your surroundings. A cage. A fucking _kennel_.

 _ _“__ You disappoint me _ _.”__ The Boss’ lips move, but there’s a whispering in your head that’s speaking at the same time: _ _“_ You. Failed _.”__ The words differ but their meanings are the same.

The noise in your head is growing louder with each moment you’re awake. **_“YOU. FAILED _.”__** And this time, this time his lips aren’t moving. The voice - _his_  voice persists, booming in your brain: **_“FAILURE!”_**  

A sharp pain shoots through your head causing your pupils to dilate. Face etched in agony, your groan turns to a growl, then a shout, and a scream - trying to drown out the Boss’ voice in your head. **_“You thought you were special? NOT TO ME.”_**

 

“What am I going to do with you?” He grimaces, teeth grinding as you start to mutter, trying to drown the voice out with your own. The Boss tisks and then turns away, sucking at his top teeth while he strides to the heavy metal door of a warehouse. A shuddering breath shakes free of your lungs. The very corner of his mouth twitches like a bomb. Reaching into his pocket, turning halfway to watch you writhe in agony inside the small kennel as your screaming resumes - he holds his cellphone to his ear. J shouts over you,“Doc-tor. You’re up.”

****

****♣♣♣♣** **

****

Upon opening your eyes a second time, the keen stench of piss greets you in the darkness. The light of the moon infiltrates the wooden structure. The cage is too small to stretch out in, knees bent with your feet touching the rusting metal. Your hands and feet are red and raw with indentations from the mesh peeking out through caked layers of dirt.

 

It’s unclear how long you’ve been in here, but by the greasiness of your long hair and the stink of sweat and urine, it’s been days, at least. You can’t see or hear any of the dogs that are typically kept here. A stab of pain deep in your gut ignites a fierce hunger. _When was the last time you ate?_  Your uneven breathing alone breaks the silence. _Fuck._

 

Reaching out with shaking hands toward the cage, your bound wrists are rubbed raw beneath the scratchy rope. Your fingers shake, gripping the mesh, creating a small cacophony of noise in the outdoor space. Your dominant hand is bruised, the knuckles dark, skinned, and red. Little drips of darkness splatter your skin and you pull your hand to your face to squint at it. _Blood?_  Your last memory is of the Boss’ voice splitting your head open. After that, nothing. Darkness.

 

The click of expensive shoes on wood has you sitting up as much as the mesh will allow. Your pants are wet, the source of the piss stench. You stare up at the silhouette of a man with long hair and glasses. Tears, heavy and hot leak from your eyes in humiliation, burning the skin of your face. Turning your head away from the person looking in at you, he squats down closer to the cage after a moment and sighs - an unhappy sound. He lifts his hand to cover his mouth and nose, grimacing.

“Let’s get you out of there,” Alex Murphy offers, motioning for someone to release the lock.

****

****♣♣♣♣** **

****

Wrestling with your soiled clothes, you shimmy them off after sitting on the toilet, pissing all the while. When your bladder finally feels empty, you toss the clothing into the small garbage pail, scowling at the smell that wafts up.

 

You turn the shower on as hot as it’ll go and climb inside the burning spray. It’s so fucking clean inside the Boss’ tiled bathroom you feel like a human stain. Dirty footprints line the bottom of the white ceramic tub as you move to step into the hot water.

Steam billows up above the closed curtain like lazy clouds, sailing toward the door. A loud sigh escapes your lips at the blissful scald of clean water. Reaching for the shampoo, you get right to work scrubbing both hair and skin until you feel clean again. It’s slow work with your bruised knuckles. You smell like him when you’re done - sandalwood. Once you’re satisfied, you cut off the flow of water to the shower faucet. For a second, water pounds against the floor of the shower before tapering off. Little drops fall with a steady _DRIP, DRIP _,__  as you reach for a towel.

 

The squeak of the door has you squeezing the towel, pulling it slowly into the tub, the curtain closing you off from view. Chewing on your lip in nervousness, your face burns hot with humiliation before he can even see you. You wrap the towel around yourself, refusing to look. Your body starts to tremble as the anxiety builds in the silence, the rhythmic click of Italian shoes the only indication that he’s moving closer. You feel exposed and vulnerable. His long, inked fingers curl around the edge of the shower curtain. The metal rings scratch abrasively against the steel bar as he slides it open, immediately staring you in the eye.

Embarrassed, you stand in a towel before him, face as red as it is hot. Though he’s seen you nude a thousand times it was never after you’d pissed yourself in a fucking cage. Your stare hardens beneath your fear at the recent memory.

His eyes skewer you in their intensity - he studies your face hard as if looking for visible cracks. You stare back defiantly, the anger burning your doubt away as you let it fester. Your hands shake so badly the rest of you sways, gooseflesh sprouting along your exposed skin. Droplets of water pepper your porcelain skin as the Boss steps into the shower, still clothed. He grabs your chin with his thumb and index finger. Your breathing shakes out of your lungs at his touch and you stiffen, muscles rigid. His lips part, tongue held at the bottom of his jaw. Pain sprouts in your chin beneath the increasing pressure of his fingers. Those neon blues scroll from your forehead, down to your lips. He leans in slow, his cheek grazing yours as his lips part to exhale against your earlobe. The sound and the feeling make you startle.

A husky chuckle from him is the only warning before the hot metal of his grill meets the skin of your ear. A strange sound escapes you, making your face burn hotter. His tongue curls around your flesh. A lone, hot tear slides down your face, your head tilting back as your long wet hair leaks cold droplets of excess water down past the slipping towel to travel along your spine. He breathes in deep through his nose, the sucking sound of air filling the otherwise tense atmosphere. _Is he smelling you?_

The Boss’ open palm slips straight beyond the towel. You let it drop at your feet as he palms the curve of your waist where he squeezes and pulls your body forward. You remain tense, steeling your calves against his pull. Tears mingle with the droplets of water leftover from your shower as they fall, _PIP . . . PIP _,__ against the tub. He steps forward and yanks you forcefully into him.

“Kitten,” he breathes, a soft exhale of breath as he leans his back against the wet wall of the shower. Dark spots appear on the expensive burgundy fabric at his sides. You use his grip to hold yourself at bay, palms against his chest with your forearms taut with anger even as they shake in the air between your body and his.

Ignoring your clear refusal, J pulls your hands onto the buttons of his shirt. It’s reminiscent of the day he took you away, your brief stint in his basement. Making quick work of the few closed buttons, you shudder as his lips graze _just_  over the skin beneath your ear, his breath warming the curve of your neck. You push the open button-down off his shoulders and stop when it gets stuck on his bent elbows. The tears make it hard to see as you bite your lip to keep from crying aloud.

He breathes in deep when your fingers brush his bare skin, his chest rising as it fills with air, tongue tasting the flesh of your neck. _Let him think you’re complacent._  Whipping his shirt onto the wet floor of the shower with a violent flick of his arms, he kisses your neck, light little pecks that end with nips and then a hard bite. He sucks at your skin, arranging you so you’re straddling his bent knee. He sinks down against the wall and sits at the corner where the tub and wall meet, pulling you with him. Water saturates his slacks, creating dark ovals that grow and grow, expanding outward.

He stares into your eyes - his own wide and cyan as a summer sky, clear with some emotion you cannot name. Grabbing your face, he bites your bottom lip so hard it bleeds, forcing a cry from you. But the sound is more sex than protest.

“Touch me,” he groans, pulling your palm to the pulsing dick hard against the front of his dress pants. Your lip hurts more when you open your mouth wider and lean hard into him. The ferocity of your kiss forces his head back against the tile, holding him there. Your fingers splay against the warm, dry skin of his chest. He growls in approval, squeezing your ass as he pulls you up into his lap proper, thrusting up against your core. You bite his lip in return, licking the blood away as he groans, holding your hips down as he slides up against you again, creating a delicious friction that pools liquid heat in your belly.

He grabs your face and pulls you in close, wide eyes so dark with want your nipples peak at the sight of them combined with that deep voice groaning into your mouth. You slide from his lap while he pulls himself free of the confines of his clothes. He sighs in content when you grasp the base and slide your tongue along the underside. Your lip stings from his bite as you bob your mouth over his dick, sucking hard when you pull back, your lips letting go with a loud POP. He stiffens more at the suction before you straddle his thin hips. His eyes close as you sink down on top of him.

“Yes,” he growls, thrusting up hard. “I missed this, Baby,” he whispers against your mouth as you ride him, kissing your lips hard and hungry. He forces his tongue inside as you move, building a steady rhythm.

“I missed you Kitten,”he sighs.

_He missed you? Is this real?_

You almost stop but continue faster, swiveling your hips down against him. He groans and palms your tits, thumbing your nipples. He leans in and sucks on one, tweaking the other, pressure building quicker now. You can feel it starting, a building of that delicious pulsing in your abdomen.

J pushes you back, holding onto you so you don’t fall, leaning you forward against the edge of the tub. Without pause, he slips back into you, pounding hard and fast as your moaning and the wet sounds of sex fill the bathroom. With your back against his chest, he wraps his arms around your sides to squeeze at your tits, biting your neck to mark you as his.

You unravel in his grasp, twitching into a scream as your body coats him with the silky white film of a good fuck. He drives harder into you after your orgasm, the sensitive skin causing you to squirm beneath him. You buck against him, limbs tingling as he fucks you so hard you start to slide over the edge of the tub. A loud squeal of surprise escapes you before you scream again when he slams home, his body pulsing inside you as he cums with you half-bent over the edge, palms flat against the cold tile floor. Your wet hair hangs in your face, droplets pooling in the grout.

****

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

Grateful for the clean clothes left on the sink, you curse when the underwear gets caught on your legs and curls up against your humid skin. Unraveling the hem, you shimmy them over your hips, followed by a loose pair of black sweatpants. The bra is next and then the thin cotton t-shirt, a semi-decent and _clean_  ensemble. 

There’s a short rap of knuckles on the door.

“Yeah!,” you shout. There’s silence on the other end as you slip into the white socks and adjust the line over your toes. Flinging the door open, you toss your filthy Chucks into the garbage with the soiled clothes.

A hairy hand offers a new pair of sneakers and you glance up to see Pops’ face, his beard trimmed neatly, bruises faded to that mottled yellow-green. His hair is longer now, swept to the side to stay off his forehead. _How long were you in that fucking cage?_

Your face heats with humiliation. Pops exhales, not quite a sigh, and he steps inside the bathroom to offer you an awkward one-armed hug before he sets a new pair of black and white Chucks onto the closed lid of the toilet and steps out into the hall.

Sucking a long breath in through your nose, you let it out your mouth, releasing the tension from your shoulders. Seeing Pops takes most of the fight out of you. _Most_ , but not all. And J, he fucking knows it.

“Thanks,” you say, gratitude and weariness edging your voice.

“Welcome,” he calls from the other side of the door - his voice muffled.

 

Fully clothed with your new kicks, you swipe at your eyes and open the door, preparing yourself. Pops nods to the end of the hall toward the Boss’ office. The right door is ajar, half of the golden “J” polished and shining against the dark wood. You take your time, walking slowly, sneakers silent against the marble. As you reach the thresh hold, you can hear the Boss talking to Murphy inside. Pops knocks on the molding and waits.

“No,” J says firmly from within the open door of the room. The Boss is leaning against the frame inside, arms crossed over his naked chest. A dry crimson button-down drapes over his thin frame, hanging limply at the sides. His grey pinstripe slacks fit perfectly. His inked chest is on display, arms crossed, biceps bulging. The sleeves are rolled up, giving the impression that he’s been _working_.

“Please. You called me here to do my job. Let me do it!,” Murphy says emphatically.

Having had enough of their talking about you, your shoulder hits the door to shove it open as you step into the room. “You done acting like I’m not fuckin’ waitin’ outside, gentleman?”

You step further into the room, the Boss moving to block your path. You stop just in time at the expected confrontation before you collide with him. Deciding against meeting his gaze, you suck in a lungful of air and tilt your head, “Boss?”

The Joker grabs your jaw hard and yanks your face up to look at him. His eyes track yours for a moment and then move to your raised eyebrows and mouth.

“Sit,” he grins, grill shining. He steps back to let you through, one arm extended in mock hospitality.

Further in the room, Murphy motions for you to sit on one of the two couches. You do, crossing your ankle over your knee. The leather of the dark sofa is cool and makes you feel cold.

The Boss plops unceremoniously into the expensive rolling chair at his desk and props his feet up on the gleaming oak surface, folding his hands to rest them on his abdomen.

 _Great. He’s staying_. You scowl after glancing at him, turning your attention to Murphy. J clucks his tongue and smirks as if pleased with your response. Pops closes the door from the hallway and you let out a silent breath, grateful for _Donny’s_ respect for your privacy.

 

Dr. Murphy sits ramrod straight at the edge of the loveseat, patient and calm, facing you. He waits for you to look back at him before he speaks. “Tell me what you remember last.”

”Being tied up,” you say stiffly, skin crawling with the memory of urine-soaked pants. You fight the need to move, restless and sore from being held captive and the Boss’ rough fucking. Rubbing your hands over your face, you try to think back. “Being locked in a fucking cage.”

“Why were you in a cage?”  
“I don’t know.”

“What happened while you were in the cage?”

“I heard a voice.”

“Just one?”  
“Yes.”  

“Whose voice?”

You work your jaw at the question, gnawing on your bottom lip. Peeling a layer of dead skin off, you rub it away with your index finger. Looking up at Murphy, you can feel the Boss’ stare like a vice against the back of your head - the intensity of his gaze makes you shudder.

“His.”

“Whose?”

You sigh loudly and stand. J watches like a predator, his 1911 still holstered, which is a good sign.

You start to pace. “His,” you say again, motioning to the Boss sitting calmly at his desk. He watches you pace like a nervous animal, his posture relaxed as his eyes follow to and fro, to and fro like a sated cat.

“And when you heard his voice, how do you know he wasn’t speaking?”  
”Because the voice spoke at the same time he did and I was alone when I hear it sometimes. **How**  is this fucking helping?”

Murphy ignores your question and asks another, “Do you hear it while he’s present?”

“I just said I did, Murphy.”

“What does it say?”

“I’m not telling you while he’s right fucking here.” You struggle to remain still, becoming more agitated as the Boss absorbs all your answers. You glance from Murphy back to the Boss and lick your bottom lip. “This shit is _personal _.__ ”

The Boss gets up and comes to stand behind you, pushing hard on your shoulders to jolt you down onto the couch. “Answer,” he commands, sitting beside you, encroaching on your space on purpose.

You growl, pulling at your clean hair with your hands, yanking the strands at the scalp. Your hair is warm near your skull. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end at the Boss being so close, watching you so intently. The fucker’s waiting to hear a weakness - one you have no choice but to admit, now.

“It says, ‘Failure,’” you whisper quietly, “It says, I’m being replaced with someone else.” Elbows on your knees as your fingers dig into your hair, humiliation colors your cheeks a-fucking-gain as warmth floods through your face and down your neck. It feels like an inferno.

Your tongue wets your lips nervously, the inflamed red spot from his bite tasting salty and strange against your tongue. You can’t help tonguing it. Unable to bear the embarrassment of J’s stare right now, your peripheral vision shows the Boss’ foot tapping the air as he stares at you for a moment after your confession. The silent span of the next two seconds has you on edge. Long fingers dig into your shoulders through the thin t-shirt, pulling you back against the couch, holding you there for a moment to make sure you stay. He pulls your legs up onto his lap. You stare a bit awkwardly, unsure what to do about this whole fucking mess. _What the fuck is he even doing right now?_

You try to swing your legs back down, but he catches them and holds them against his lap, shooting you a warning look. Leaning forward to stare him in the eye, you say, “Why was I in a fucking cage?”

He clucks his tongue, shaking his head as he sits up and leans toward you. Refusing to back down, you watch him get within an inch, his breath smelling of coffee and mint. Your stomach rumbles loudly, but you ignore it like a champ.

“I answer. To. No one. But, you _ _,__ Dollllll _ _.__  You-you-you. Answer. _To ** **me****_ ,” he says slowly. He watches for your reaction, so you don’t offer one, careful to keep your expression neutral.

“Pardon me for intervening, but, Mr. Joker, it would be beneficial if the gaps in memory were filled in,” Murphy offers quietly. The Boss ignores him for what feels like an eternity as he stares at you, so close you could bite his lips right off his fucking face. The way he smirks lets you know he could read that thought on your face. So much for staying neutral. _Smug fuck _.__

J leans his head up toward the ceiling as if beseeching the stars before he sinks back against the couch. He shoves your legs off his lap, this time lifting his legs to rest on you, instead.

“No,” J says curtly, absolute in his answer. Your eyes open at the blatant refusal and you sigh through your nose. The Boss continues, “This is the deal, Doc.”

J stands, grabs your arm and slings you toward the Doctor, causing you to stumble against the couch and land on one knee with your hair in your face.

“You **fix**  this,” he says, pointing at you. “No cage. I get my _Kitten_  back. Everyone lives.” And with that, the bastard stands, blows you a dramatic kiss and closes the door quietly behind him as he leaves.

Snarling, you stand and punch the wall with your injured fist, screaming in rage and pain at his easy dismissal of you.

Murphy remains quiet, perhaps hoping you’ll forget he’s there.

****

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

Two weeks crawl by. It’s subtle at first. The voice is still there, but more quiet - an insistent whisper instead of the booming scream. The higher the dosage Murphy prescribes, the more in-control you are of your own thoughts. By the time the hallucinations disappear altogether, you’re swallowing triple the dosage you started at before the Joker ruined your life the second time.

 

Another two solid weeks go by, this time fast since the sessions are short, to-the-point since there’s so little to discuss. It’s been a month since you’ve last seen J, since he walked out of his own office where you sat with Murphy trying to rehash the nightmare mission that fucked everything up.

 

Even as he keeps you in his gilded Amusement Mile mansion cage, you hear rumors. There’s talk that he’s got someone new. A readhead from The Red Light. You ignore their gossip, unable to shake the burn of jealousy in the pit of your gut. You knew you’d never be the only one. He said as much. But that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.

****

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

Pops won’t talk about it, no one does. It’s as if nothing happened and everything was as it should be. The gorilla in the room was starting to make you angry more than anxious now and you kept pestering Charming, Princess, and Pops for information about that fucking mission.

“C’mon Don Juan, I need _something_. How can I make sure that shit never happens again?”

“Leave it _ _,__ kid.”

“No.”

“I said, leave it.”  
”I know what you said, Pops. And I’m _not_  gonna’ fuckin’ ‘leave it.’ This is my life.”

You had to figure out what happened to land you in that fucking cage the first time. After all, how could you make sure it never happened again if you didn’t know what you’d done to begin with?

“One person can tell ya’ what happened. One. And you’re askin’ the wrong one.”

****

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

You close the door quietly when you leave Murphy in the Boss’ office, the scab on your lower lip healed nicely into semi-new skin. You lick it smooth. Pops is smoking by the front door, turning at the squeaking of your sneakers down the marble stairs. He grins at you and sticks the cig between his lips, motioning for you to follow before he limps outside.

“Where to, Pops?”

“Let’s eat. I’m fuckin’ starvin’.”

“What else is new? You’re always starving.”

“Fuck you.”  
”You wish, old man.”

“Nope,” he says easily, smirking at you.

“Yep,” you say childishly, smiling all the while. A moment of comfortable silence passes between you before you fuck it all up.

“Is it true?” you ask, staring out the window at the passing scenery. Pops doesn’t answer at first, tossing his cigarette butt out the window. He blows a line of smoke out his nose into the cab of the SUV. You turn to look at him, waiting.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, kid.”

“It is, then,” you breathe, shaking your head as you lean it back against the headrest.

“It’s business,” he says quietly, “it’s not what you think.”

“What is it that I think?,” you ask cattily.

“That he’s fuckin’ someone else for fun. The Boss is about leverage and staying ten steps ahead. If he’s got someone else on his lap it’s for a purpose.”

“He said he missed me.”

“He would.”

“I know. That’s what makes it so fucked up, Pops. I know all of this already. I don’t love him. I don’t.”

“You trying to convince me or yourself?”

You laugh, but he catches the shine in your eyes before you turn to stare back out the window, digging your nails hard into your palm to keep from letting your eyes well with saline.

You. Do NOT. Love him. Unfortunately for you, the crescent-shaped indentations in your palms tell a different story.

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

Pops takes you out to run shit errands while the Boss avoids you, still. Donny’s phone rings while you drive for once. He presses it to his ear, leaving the radio on loud in the background. It’s gotta be J.

“Sure thing,” he says before he hangs up.

“It was him, wasn’t it.”

“Fifth and Main,” is all he says, pulling his shades back down over his eyes. You sigh and swing the black beetle of an SUV around and head back toward the Upper East Side.

Hoping to catch a glimpse of the Boss, you scowl when you see the exclusive club sign in gold lettering on the other side of the street: Gotham City Millionaires Club.

“Are you fucking kidding me?,” you scoff, “how the fuck are we supposed to get in?”

“We don’t,” Donny smirks, stepping out onto the sidewalk.

“HEY!,” you yell as he slams the door on you.

Pops is leaning against the car door talking to someone you don’t recognize. Money subtly changes hands and Pops gets back in, motioning for you to go.

“That’s it?,” you ask suspiciously.

“Yep. We got ourselves a new target. Some fancy gala’s gonna be held here in a month. We got plenty of time to plan.”

“We?”

He shoots you an exasperated look, “You and me, kid.” You smile at that until you realize something.

“What about the Spades?”

“What about ‘em?”

“They usually run intel and plan, not Clubs, not us.”

“Not when the Boss has them fortifying Amusement Mile. The mother lode came in last night. He’s got everyone else working on getting it settled.”

“Why not us?”

“He trusts us to do it right the first time.”

You give him the stink eye at his bold-faced lie and shake your head, deciding to hold your tongue for once. The war on Falcone was closing in. And fast.

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

****

The Joker totes the redhead around like a knock-off Coach purse. You ignore her as he ignores you, your full attention on work even as she hangs all over his body like a drunk ornament. He’s wearing his finest tux, the woman in a sleazy red dress that doesn’t match the caliber of the club or the event. The cheap material shows off her lack of a bra beneath it, her ample bust bursting out of the scoop neck. She looks like a stick of dynamite on a Christmas tree.

J’s tinted skin and blond wig are in place, white gloves adorning his inked finger in the stead of his many rings. Every time he talks she laughs loudly, obnoxiously, pulling unwanted attention to him. Your eyes blink once at the green boutonniere adorning his lapel.

_He lifted the red carnation from the floor, glancing at you sideways before tucking it into the hair by your ear. He swiped at your neck, where your tattoo was, rubbing the makeup away until it showed, dark and proud._

Blinking away the memory, you feel the Boss’ eyes spear you from across the room. His lips curve up in the corner as he smirks in your direction. His ticking jaw is the only outward sign that he’s growing tired of his lap candy, regardless of the smugness he exudes.

 

Pops watches subtly, his eyes sweeping the gala the Boss is casually crashing. Donny shaved and bleached his hair, green contacts and a long beard concealing his identity enough that no one so much as glances in his direction. The monocle he wears had made you laugh aloud when he picked you up in the SUV. A smirk tilts your lips when he bows at you and removes his top hat in one smooth motion.

 

You’re a vision in a high-necked viridian dress that clings to your curves. A large, intricate design subtly shows off your shape without revealing anything but your legs from ankle to knee. Simple and sophisticated, you catch the eye of a few men the moment you walk in behind the Boss and his Peppermint Stick. A pair of steel kitten heels keep your legs shapely, your hair pulled up into an elegant braid that curls neatly over one shoulder. A bra holster easily hides your Mark III though it begs perfect posture for full concealment.

An older gentleman with striking grey eyes sweeps you onto the dance floor at the first notes of a waltz. You smile at the twinkle in his eye, but carefully work your hand away from his, mid-dance, to saunter toward a drink-bearing waiter. You hold the top-shelf martini, taking the tiniest of sips so those watching closely won’t get suspicious of your departure from the old miser.

Several more gentleman offer their hands for a dance to which you smile politely - all poise and grace - accepting once your glass is empty. You can feel the heat of the Boss’ gaze several times as strangers sway you around the gleaming granite floor. Little golden plaques bearing the phrase “Donated by the Wayne family” are visible on almost every adornment in the vast ballroom, including the diamond-gilded chandeliers.

 

With the slight raise of his chin toward Donny, J deposits the Peppermint on the Club’s arm as she huffs in annoyance at his dismissal. The Boss glides through the crowd and takes your elbow, saying nothing. He smiles - no teeth, lips closed, and offers you his gloved hand.

Forcing a smile, you stare into his eyes as you take the offered hand, wanting nothing more than to reject him publicly. Being smart enough to know he’d never allow it to go unpunished, you close your eyes for the barest moment as he circles you around the room - “Moonlight Sonata” playing in your head as your mind drifts back to a different time, a different place. . .

_“Stay,” he breathed. His thumbs rubbed your tears into your skin, pushing them over the curve of your jaw. “Please,” he exhaled, eyes opening, pain staring back at you._

_“ ** **We****? There was  never a we. There is a you and a me,” you said, pulling his hands off your face. _

You can feel your eyes deaden at the memory, the Boss pulling your body closer as he swirls you around, his breath releasing in little puffs against the side of your neck. Lost in the past, you shiver in his arms, the long sleeves of your dress hiding goosebumps.

_“This is you,” you whispered, leaning in to kiss his forehead, tongue swiping over the new cut. He moved, surging into your lap to claim your mouth._

Carefully cupping the back of his neck, you avoid his eyes as your throat tightens and your eyes becoming glassy. Licking your bottom lip nervously, you force a smile as the song ends and he bows low, eyes drinking your expression. He catches the shine in your eyes, his face remaining a mask of neutrality.

You curtsy, one foot in front of the other as your palms open on either side of your hips. The crowd of dancers bow and curtsy around the two of you as you seize the opportunity to put space between you and your boss.

 

An old woman steps up to a microphone on a raised stage. “Attention! Please make your way to the tables. The awards for this evening’s top donors are about to begin!”

Most of the guests pile into the chairs lining long rectangular tables facing the stage. A few stand at the back smoking expensive, sweet-smelling tobacco.

 

Pops slips the hat off his head, winking. Smiling wide - your signal back - you make your way along the very back of the wall toward the award ceremony. The Boss watches Pops, then you, as the two of you make your way to the rear of the room. Your hand dips inside your dress to produce your pistol from beneath it, showing off your lacy underwear and the pale skin up to your bra holster. The Boss licks his lips salaciously, a tiny hint of grill showing at the display, his hand slipping beneath the table for adjustment. You move toward his table, the gun behind you, hidden by your body.

The Boss stands in the center of the room, garnering attention from some of the guests that are trying to view the award ceremony. A series of tinkling sounds fill the room before a POP, _POP_ , **POP**  sends people in a stir over the noise. The Boss stands with his hands raised like a lone conductor _just_  as the four gigantic, diamond-studded chandeliers crash to the floor in an explosion of gems and mayhem.

The iconic laugh: “ **HA HA HAAA**!  _Ladies_. And _gentle _-__ men _ _,”__ he says loudly, voice projecting across the vast and dusty ballroom. He swipes the blond wig from his head and tosses it at Peppermint Stick where she cowers on the floor, crawling toward a cluster of diamonds near an exit.

Men shout, women scream, and you laugh at the chaos, colored glass raining down on the scene as the rest of the gang break the stained glass domed ceiling and slip down on ropes to block the exits and keep the guests in line.

Making sure no one’s going to play the hero, you watch the Boss’ back as Pops comes in close, shotgun raised to guard his other side. Cursing at yourself, your body betrays you by relaxing when J’s fingers splay along your hip as he talks to the crowd.

“ **Now**  that I have your attention,” he grins, catching the semi-automatic rifle Jonah tosses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this chapter with a fiery passion. I kept trying to do too much with it (like I did in chapter 21) and ended up splitting the main plot events between two chapters. This part was was my least favorite to write (I've dreaded it since I wrote the outline). The sex is STILL taking over my fucking plot. Sorry about any type-o's or awkward sentences.


	23. Plastic Heart

(Chapter title inspired by the Nostalghia's song “[Plastic Heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4TgWtnzK46M).”)

Author’s Note: *WARNING* This chapter contains drug use, sexual assault, rape, torture, and sexual content including F/M/F, and F/F. NSFW!

 

**Chapter 23: Plastic Heart**

****

It’s been a month since you’ve been to your own apartment. Saliva pools in your mouth while you reach into your hoodie pocket to shake a pill from the bottle. It glides quickly down your throat as the elevator dings.

When you step into the hallway, you catch a glimpse of a figure leaning against the wall across from your apartment door. His hands are clasped behind him to cushion his body, the start of a goatee on his sculpted chin. A jade shirt gives him away, complimenting those vibrant but tired eyes. A dark grey pair of trousers hug his skinny legs as he pushes away from the wall to stand up straight at the sight of you.  His skin looks less golden and more pale now - too much time indoors.   

“Thank God!,” he calls. He doesn’t step closer, but he doesn’t have to. You break into a run at the sight of him, a brilliant smile lighting up your face as you throw your arms around his neck. He laughs and squeezes you, swinging you around and around before he pins you against the wall and grabs the sides of your face as if convincing himself you’re real. A smile tugs at his lips as you press your lips against his, firm and demanding. You lean your face into his neck and shoulder, his tight hold making you feel safe and _wanted_.  Missed.

“Jesus christ,” he whispers into your hair, “I thought you were dead.”

****

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

Over a mostly-full glass of whiskey, Goldilocks listens quietly.

“I don’t know how much of this you want to hear,” you say openly. He swirls the alcohol in his glass, viridian eyes remaining on you. They track around your face, taking in all the details that may have changed in the last four weeks

“He locked me in a cage when it became clear my illness was taking over.” You suck a deep breath into your lungs and sigh it out.

“When you were no longer useful,” Colt surmises, grimacing. You chew your bottom lip, nodding, looking down at your hand as you grip your glass. Your nails have grown jagged and long. You lift the glass to your lips, tipping it back to finish it in one long swallow. Colt watches and waits for you to put the glass down, cupping your face, leaning toward you.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he whispers against your lips, his voice filling your chest with that warmth that thaws your insides. You can feel it growing hotter as your face heats with emotion, your hands trembling as they cover his. Your heterochromatic eyes close, a tear slipping out to trail slowly down your cheek.

“I’m grateful for you, Edward,” you sigh, a sad smile lining your mouth, eyes down as your cheeks heat at the admission. Edward’s lips meet yours, slow and deep, tongue working the seam of your mouth, asking permission. You acquiesce, tasting alcohol and cigarettes on his lips. He hums his approval, pulling your body toward his. He kisses you again and again, the urgency growing each time your lips meet until it’s ravenous and fast. Heat grows like a fire in your belly at his ferocity.

Goldilocks pins you against him, kissing your forehead, cheek, nose, chin, then finally your lips again. A smile threatens to chase your tears away, your eyes shining with a fragile happiness you haven’t felt in a long time.

 

“A lot’s happened with Falcone since you’ve been gone,” he sighs, leaning his forehead against yours.

“Later,” you whisper, tilting your head to kiss his neck. He hums, an amused sound that has your hands seeking beneath his shirt to feel the warmth of his skin. Without speaking, he places open-mouthed kisses along your neck and down toward the scooped neckline of your shirt.

“You,” he breathes, “are gonna’ be the death of me.” He’s patient and calm and perfect as he nips then soothes the bite, backing you toward your bedroom.

Fingers grasp the hem of his shirt before you tear it over his head. His hair becomes tousled, your eager hands roaming the exposed skin. His muscles twitch beneath your fingers and you find a ticklish spot, tickling him mercilessly as you let him corral you into your bedroom.

Smiling at the disheveled look, you kiss him hard and hungry, tackling him onto the soft mattress of your bed. He meets your ferocity, groaning behind the kiss as your legs hook over his hips to straddle him. Fingertips trailing over the hard lines of his abdomen, you dip your fingers just inside the waistband of his trousers, raking your nails up his stomach. He hisses and twitches, a sigh-moan escaping as his eyes flutter closed. He smirks when your nail dips _just_  inside his bellybutton.

Stronger than you’ve given him credit for, Edward sits up on his elbows with you on top of him, taking your bottom lip between his teeth. You lick his lip and he laughs, biting his own when you grind your hips down against him. Sitting up proper, he tugs you into his lap and slips your shirt over your head, trapping your arms in it.

“Damn you, Colt!,” you sigh, hands stuck in your shirt. He bites your neck hard, sucking the skin into his mouth. You gasp at his assertiveness, heat pooling low in your belly. You arch your back and slip your legs back around his hips, pulling his body flush against yours. Edward will not be rushed, taking his time to leave a mark before he slides your shirt off the rest of the way, dropping it to the carpet.

 

Panting, you drive him back toward the mattress. He works his way down your body, kissing, licking, biting, making you eager for it. Once he’s got you naked beneath him Colt kisses a slow line down your body, taking particular interest in the scarred skin between your breasts where the Boss has carved his name into your flesh.

 

He rests his palm flat against the raised skin and stares into your eyes, his other hand gripping your leg. Those forest eyes are speaking to you, and you think you know what he’s asking. In reply, you wrap your legs around his slim hips and pull his pelvis toward yours. Without words the two of you explore the tension that exists between you. It’s clean and filling - a warmth that radiates from your smile and glints in Edward’s eyes. He shows you what it’s like to have something mutual, something balanced. He’s careful and thorough in his exploration of what drives you to the edge and what pushes you over it.

 

You take your time with him beneath you, watching his reactions. You want to see him unravel. And he does, twice before you’re sated enough to fall asleep in his arms. This time, your feet face the same direction. Legs entwined, you brush his sweaty hair from his eyes and kiss him before you settle into a restful slumber, too exhausted to relive the dark memories of the last month that linger on the edge of your consciousness.

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

Peppermint wears a skintight leather dress that shows off her tits. The back of the skirt rides up when she sits, revealing the very tops of her thighs and the edge of her lace underwear. The Boss’ many-ringed fingers rest atop her thigh. His other arm lays draped over his chair, curved at the elbow, fingers hanging limply.

A successful heist of the Millionaire’s Club has him in good spirits though you could do without the out-of-season, ever-present Candycane.

“A celebration,” he calls, lipstick smeared on his mouth. Peppermint is holding his whiskey glass, their lipstick co-mingling on the rim. His eyes come to rest upon you. Your skin tingles and the little white hairs stand straight up as you pull your eyes away. With your back facing J, you watch the perimeter of the VIP section.

Pops - always the wise guy - pretends to shoot at you with his finger, blowing on the end of his raised index finger. You grin, grabbing your chest dramatically, causing the lace-paneled jacket to buckle where your palm presses into it, the very curve of your black bra showing beneath the fabric. Pops limps out the door to the club, your gaze following him, wishing you could leave with him. The last of your smile is wiped away when you feel J’s gaze again. _Grow a set of balls, Boss _.__

Your skin crawls beneath his gaze as you force yourself to keep J in your peripheral vision. Your eyes want to keep roving to him, but the sound of the other woman makes it easier to avoid him altogether - except when he’s got you working security in the same fucking room.

Your body relaxes despite the anger and jealousy flooding your veins. It’s just work, you get to do what you want afterward. _Sleep with_  who you want afterward. Let him get his kicks with the Peppermint bitch. You’ve got your own thing going, anyway.

Jonah stops a waitress to pluck a shot off her tray, eyes watching anyone that wanders too close. He holds the shot out to his right - to you - without moving his eyes.

Raising an eyebrow, you take the glass, tilting it toward him in thanks before downing it. Licking your teeth, you let your eyes swivel behind you, catching _his_  gaze for a moment. It’s enough. He crooks a finger at you, but you ignore it. _Come ‘n get it_ , you taunt inwardly.

Jonah sticks a large palm out toward a guy that’s dancing a bit too close to the VIP stairs. You watch Jonah’s victim stumble, flailing as he falls to the packed dance floor. People scatter as he goes down, avoiding the interruption to their show as nude women writhe together on the muti-color stages. A topless waitress stumbles over the fallen man’s extended leg and she drops the tray of empty glasses she was carrying, the _CRACK_  of breaking glass causing a distraction.

Hands clamp down on your shoulders and you hear the Candy-cunt whine,“Baby? Where you goin’?”

J doesn’t dignify her question with an answer, breathing against the mark Edward Colt left on your neck. His gloved hand tilts your head to the left, eyeing the bruise with his jaw set.

“Let me guess,” he breathes into your ear, splaying his other bare palm against your throat, he squeezes until your eyes close, pulling your body back against his. “You’ve been leavin’ your toys out again.”

“No, sir,” you smirk, “I _always_  put them away.”

“HA, HAAA,” he laughs loudly, stabbing his cane at the tiled floor in emphasis, gritting his teeth.

“You’re. **_Mine_** ,” he breathes in your ear, jabbing your foot with his cane. His hand squeezes, teeth grinding until your face starts turning red and your eyesight starts to blur, little black spots taking over.

“The next time you play with him outside of work, Kitten,” he says hotly, his fingers digging into your hair to pull viciously. “I’m gonna’ **fuck**  you in front of him before he dies.” He releases you harshly, your body staggering over into Jonah, the other man’s hands steady you as his eyes avoid the Boss altogether.

 

The Boss whistles, summoning Peppermint as he leaves the VIP section and heads toward the staircase to the Manager’s office. “I’m feelin’ generous, tonight, Baby. _Follow_ ,” he grins coldly, pointing his cane at you. Your expression remains neutral even as your blood pressure spikes at the insinuation, your face hot and itchy after the suffocation.

“Why’s she comin’, Baby?”

“Shut the fuck up,” he grins dangerously as he leans into her face, motioning with his cane for her to go upstairs first. She smirks then saunters up past him, expecting him to do something. He doesn’t, standing by Jonah with both hands on his cane as he waits.

You hook the rope closure after yourself and sigh silently through your nose as you pass the Boss on the landing to the stairs. He runs his tongue over his top teeth, smacking your ass hard with his cane as you jog up the steps. Holding back a retort or violent response, you slam the door to the office open to see the bimbo kneeling on the floor by the coffee table, smoking a joint. The pungent stench of the drug fills the expanse of the office.

She grins, closing her eyes after she inhales, a cloud of rank air seeping from her nose and open mouth as she sighs. She giggles ridiculously, causing you to scowl and slip your Mark from its holster to rest comfortably in your palm.

“Put. It. Away,” the Boss snarls as he kicks the door shut and removes his tuxedo jacket. Draping it over the chair to the large desk, he motions for you to come, crooking a finger at you slowly. He stares hard at you, waiting intently.

You slide your Mark back into the holster, moving to stand in front of him. The Joker takes his switchblade from his pocket, sitting on the edge of his desk. He uses his legs to pull you between them and lock you in place.

“Now. You know the drill,” he sighs, a dramatic frown making his face look all wrong. He cuts the buttons off your shirt and you turn your head to look at the wall as he does. A sharp slap turns your face toward the whore on the floor. You spit blood, tonguing the cut in your cheek from one of your molars.

“ **Look**. At _me_ ,” he snarls, grabbing your jaw hard and yanking your face so you stare into his. His nails are getting long, they dig into the sensitive skin of your chin, creating little indents you can feel stinging as he tenses.

“You owe me blood. And pain, Doll. That gets paid now that you’re coherent again,” he grins. You go to move, but he jerks your body to still you, tisking a warning.

“Nuh-uh-uhhh.”

“Use my knife,” you say quietly, a shudder working its way down your spine.

“No,” he says easily.

“It’s a tradition now, Boss,” you smile despite the pain about to be inflicted on you.

“Allll the more _reason_. To **break it** ,” he grins. He licks your chin between his fingers and slips his tongue into the corner of your mouth. It wiggles between your lips until he’s kissing you.

“Hey! What about me?” Peppermint whines, giggling at the end as she struggles to get up into a sitting position. She starts to slip her dress up, but it gets stuck around her hips.

The Boss ignores her, continues kissing you and slides the flat side of the blade down the center of your chest. You feel the sleeves of your shirt sliding down and startle, when you realize Peppermint is helping.

“Get **OFF**  me,” you growl, jerking in the Boss’ grasp like a dog on a short chain. He clucks his disapproval at your movement.

“This won’t do at all,” he sighs, standing to shove you hard onto your back on his desk - by your _neck_. You struggle against him as that fucking woman yanks one of your shoes off, tossing it across the room. It smacks the wall with a _THUD_. The Boss climbs over you when you start to struggle harder, tears leaking from your eyes as you beg him to stop letting her touch you.

“STOP IT. I don’t care what _you_  do to me, Boss, don’t let her touch me,” you cry, screaming loud when he sinks the razor into your abdomen to carve a capital “E” beneath the scarred “K.”

The woman pulls at your pants, but you buck and scream beneath the Boss so much he shoves her away.

“Wait your fucking turn,” he snarls, tossing a sealed ziplock bag at her. She grins and starts getting lines ready, sinking back to her knees on the floor.

Sobbing, you still beneath him as he finishes his “E” and starts the “R.” Out of all the letters the last is the worst, your body shaking so hard each sob causes agony. Blood runs in little streams down your sides, over his desk. Your shirt is on the floor, your breasts tilting away from your bra. The Boss wipes at his mouth as he leans up and away from you, surveying his handiwork. With a grin, he begins to undress himself, motioning for Peppermint.

Black dots form like bubbles across your vision. Threatening to pass out, you blink the dots away for a moment, slipping off the desk and into the Boss’ chair. Thumbing your Mark from its holster, you keep it hidden as blood leaks freely from the fresh wounds. Too much, there’s too much blood. You feel weak, the gun heavy in your hand.

Blinking hard, your head falls back against the chair. “Get away,” you slur, shoving Peppermint away as she slips her dress off and sways toward you in just her underwear. Her chest is obviously silicone, her perfectly large, round breasts defying gravity. They create the perfect cleavage line without a bra, her nipples stiff and at attention as the Boss kicks his shoes off and makes quick work of his pants.

Peppermint climbs onto the desk, your blood staining her white skin as she scowls for a moment at it then shrugs, her pupils blown wide. She trails her open palms down her tits, rubbing circular motions against her nipples as she swirls her hips, biting her lip as her eyes hood.

She grabs hold of the chair, her tits in your face as she leans in and squeezes her elbows against them, suffocating you in her cleavage. With a ridiculous cackle, she screeches when the Boss grabs her hips and yanks her legs out from under her. She falls against you, her head colliding painfully with your nose and upper lip as she falls and grabs your knees to try and stay upright. She cries out angrily as he spits on her once, twice, to lube her up before he slams his semi-hard dick into her ass. Unconsciousness pulls hard at you, your blood starting to clot now, the thick edges of the butchered skin agonizing. Saving what energy you have left, you close your eyes when Peppermint pulls at your bra and tries to grip your chest. Using your feet, you push the chair away from the desk until it hits the glass wall, groaning in pain as you double over, keeping the gun hidden with your torso. The Boss fucks her as she struggles to gain purchase with her hands, her hips at the front edge of the desk as he slams into her again and again, reaching to pull her hair.

Suddenly, the Boss pulls away from her and scowls. He pins you with a look and motions for you to get up, staring at you intently. Uncomfortable with the look, you realize he must see the gun by now. Slowly, you school your face neutral and stand on shaking knees, taking a slow step toward him. Your body shakes so hard, your knees buckle twice before you move to crawl toward him.

 He watches you, reaching down to yank the condom off his stiffening cock. He tosses the used rubber onto the flailing whore on his desk, pumping his dick with his hand. Blood glistens over your abdomen, staining your underwear, running down your legs, making you feel cold and weak.

J sinks back onto the couch, pumping himself faster as you stop at his feet. He motions for you to turn around and yanks you down onto his lap, his erection like hot steel against your ass. The Boss sighs, a pleasant sound as he thrusts against your body, one hand cupping your breast while the other slips into your underwear. He groans at finding you wet, spreading the moisture around with his index and middle fingers. Peppermint sits up on the desk, tossing the condom onto the floor as she rubs her tits again, watching the Boss use you.

She stands, sliding her panties off as she moves to sit in your lap while the Boss touches you, pinching her own nipples in your face as she leans in and kisses you. Your body responds to the view so you slam your eyes shut, brain working for a way out of this in once piece and with some semblance of dignity. You try to turn your head, but she grabs the side of your face with long nails digging into your skin, her teeth vicious as she bites down on your lip, causing it to bleed. She moans, pulling your free hand toward her pussy.

Peppermint arches her back to squeeze her chest on either side of your face, moaning as she rubs her own nipples. The Boss shoves her away to reposition you over his dick, watching Candy Cane finger herself while he fucks you from behind, pounding up so hard into you the force bounces your tits out of your bra.

“Show me how it’s done, Baby,” J rasps into your ear, his eyes glittering with the promise of sex and death as he leads your gun-wielding hand up and toward the redhead. With a jerk of his hips up to half-standing, it drops Peppermint onto the floor, her eyes fluttering in her confusion. You smile - something dying inside you when he pauses in his fucking you __just__ for a breath as you aim and fire. Proud of his little monster, the Boss shoves you onto the couch and lifts your legs onto his shoulders, spreading you wide for him as your wounds bleed and bleed.

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

Goldilocks is all-business today, his anxiousness making you uneasy as he pulls the curtains and sends the living room into darkness. This job you have him on, it was always dangerous. But now, at the brink of war, it’s become a struggle to make time to meet without getting caught.

Edward didn’t have much to worry about from his side, Falcone didn’t suspect a rat since J wasn’t on the offensive. The problem always was, and always would be - J. It would always be _that_  son of a bitch fucking everything up. Did it come as a surprise? Hell, no. He loved making you squirm in every way he could manage. You loved and hated it all at once. The Boss made it clear he doesn’t want to share his toys. So you’ve gotten better at hiding the little time you spend with Edward outside of sharing information.

“My boss is close, JR. Too close. This thing is about to get blown wide open. It’s right around the corner.”He swipes his hand through his hair slowly, watching your face.

“When are you going to tell me what JR means?”

His smile doesn’t meet his eyes today. “Soon.”

You nod and rub your eyes, sitting on the arm of the sofa as you think about what to do next. You want to ask him something, but fear keeps you chicken, ties your tongue. You avoid meeting his gaze because he’ll see the question in your eyes.

Edward’s gotten more gaunt over the last month and a half, worried about the impending war, unsure of what to do. That uncertainty is going to get him killed. After your tumultuous history with him, you still can’t say which side he would choose and that has been eating away at you for weeks.

“How much time?,” you ask finally, glancing up at him. He lifts a half-full glass of whiskey to his lips before he downs it. He sits the glass on the coffee table before turning to face you.

“A week at most. I know the plan.” You chew on the inside of your cheek as Edward sits heavily onto his plush leather couch. You slide down the arm to sit beside him, smiling a little when he pulls you against his side.

“He’s going for Amusement Mile. Land only, from what they were saying. They’ll block the bridges, make escape by road impossible. They’re coming en-force -  everyone’s in. Distractions’ll be set up on the other side of Gotham to keep the bat and the PD at bay, at least for the start. It’s a decent plan, if a bit less thorough than I expected.”

“And you?,” you ask, swallowing thickly as the question finally leaves your mouth.

“Me?”

“What’s your role in all this?” He shakes his head at the question and leans his head back against the sofa.

“I don’t have a stake in this. This isn’t my fucking war.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“And I do? I don’t see a way where we survive this, JR. I just can’t see that happening.”

 

Tears well in your eyes at his voicing your fears, your teeth worrying your bottom lip.

“We can’t talk like that. If you want to end it, then -,” he cuts you off, holding a finger to your lips. Leaning in, he kisses one cheek, then the other, and slides the finger down your chin to tilt it up before he kisses your mouth.

 

“I’m not saying we end it.”

“Then what are you saying, Edward?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“Shut up and kiss me,” you smile, tears leaking from your eyes.

 

That thing that’s been melting in your chest, it’s starting to drip, pooling in all your organs, all the cells of your body until it fuses like wax. And that feeling, it scares the shit out of you - more than J ever could.

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

The information Colt passed along last night burns through your stomach, warmer than the remnants of alcohol in your blood. You’re semi-distracted on your last session of the month with Murphy. His cellphone rings loudly, his hand snatching the offending item off the end table beside his chair. He remains still but you can feel him cringing as he stands and jogs to the door, heading into a private inner office to take the call. It’s probably J.

Standing, unable to sit still anymore, you move to the mirror opposite Murphy’s desk to check your holster. The right strap’s getting lose again from overuse. Tightening the strap, you secure it with a safety pin to ensure it’ll stay tight. Turning your head away, a blue glow catches your attention on the wall just above the mirror. It’s a tiny little oval of light, almost hidden by the neutral gray paint. Glancing over at the inner office door, you slip your phone from your pocket and take a picture of the light’s glow on the wall above the mirror. Lifting the mirror up off its hinge, you find a tiny camera. It seems to be wireless, angled toward the chair and couch for his sessions. Anger burns inside you again, finding Murphy’s continued infringement against his patient’s privacy. You take another picture with your phone before yanking the camera off the wall and flicking the little button beneath it to “off.”

Considering your options, you close the door to the office you’re sitting in, cutting yourself off from Murphy. Shoving hard at the couch, you use it to block the door, slinging yourself into his desk chair to check out his laptop. He’s got his password written on a fucking post-it note taped to the empty space to the right of the keyboard. You search his desk - reminiscent of the past and find several flash drives and his car keys. Sticking the keys in your pocket, you remove your Mark III from its holster and set it carefully on the glass desk. It clinks against the surface and you glance up toward the door.

No sound from the other side except barely audible murmurs, he must still be on the phone. Feeling the press of time, you clean the desk of anything useful and stash it in the backpack Murphy uses on the floor beneath the desk. Opening the camera software, you find the archive of videos and still shots. You can see Murphy speaking with the Boss, J threatening in his posture as Murphy cowers. Turning the sound up, you hear them talking about you, your sessions. J’s dictating what he’s expecting from all this, what he wants to see. It’s all been set up from the start. You clench your jaw, fingers itching to grab the Mark and end this. The deep dark of betrayal pulls your stomach out through your feet as you close your eyes and tilt your head back, face toward the ceiling. They planned _it all_.

Opening another video, you see Murphy with patient after patient, but one video catches your eye. It’s a young woman leaning back against the couch limply while Murphy’s close, too close. Touching her inappropriately, his hand sliding over the curve of her small breast. Rage lights your blood as you save the file and find another, and another, six more where the Doctor is taking advantage of his patients while they’re in a sleep-like state. Licking at your lips, you open a browser and do some quick file sharing.

Slipping the laptop closed, you tuck it into the backpack with the charger. Securing your phone back in your pocket, you sling the backpack over both shoulders and pull a cigarette out of your pocket. Lighting the end of it, you inhale deep, eyes fluttering before you pull the filing cabinet open and sift through the contents. He’s rebuilt your file. Stuffing it into the backpack, you find a metal case with a lock that intrigues you. Looking on his key ring, you find a key that’ll fit the tiny lock. Sticking the case into the bottom of the backpack, you pull on your cigarette just as the door pushes against the couch. Smiling behind your cigarette, you hear him speak.

“Hey, open the door,” Murphy calls.

“In a minute Doc,” you call sweetly, moving to prop the backpack behind the door so it’ll be hidden when you open it. You slip the mirror back onto the wall and palm your pistol, shoving the couch out of the way. Murphy isn’t expecting the obstruction to be gone and barrels into the office like a bull, stumbling toward his desk. His feet __just__  catch him from landing head-first - a fucking shame.

Raising your gun, you aim it at him. His face is neutral when he turns to face you, his hands raising in submission.

“This brings back memories, doesn’t it, Doc?” You grin, tilting your head to the side.

He doesn’t reply and you hum in disappointment at his lack of an answer.

“I asked you a fucking question.”

“Yes.”

“Interesting little space, J set up for you, isn’t it?”

“Sure.”

“Old habits die hard, though, don’t they, Doc?”

“What habits?”

“Ah, you’re still a terrible liar,” you smile, motioning for him to sit on the couch.

“You see, I’m not as dumb as you seem to think I am.”

“I don’t think - “

“ **SHUT**. **UP!** ,” you scream, stepping toward him. Your face morphs in rage as you shoot his foot and he screams in pain, curling in on himself.

“You are a sick piece of shit, Alex Murphy. You take advantage of young women that trust you.” His face pales at your accusation, his whimpering growing louder as you raise the gun again.

“There are no second chances for plastic hearts,” you whisper, shooting him in the chest. He sags forward, tipping out of the chair as blood leaks from the fatal wound.

Hefting the backpack over your shoulder, you pull your lighter out and scatter papers and his opened bottle of Vodka all over his office, lighting it on fire as you move toward the door. The flame takes a while, but there’s a decent fire going before it gets too smoky and hot to remain. You take the elevator back down to the glistening lobby of black and white marble, making your way to Murphy’s Porche, peeling out of the parking lot toward Crime Alley.

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

****

“Angie’s Garage,” the grizzled old woman says, shortly, her cough louder than her voice over the phone line.

“I have a drop off.”

“Bring it around back.”

Seeing the busted-ass sign for the garage, you pull the Porche around back to an empty space among a rather vast parking lot of cars. Slinging the backpack on your shoulder, you step out, Mark III in-hand. You slip the Porche key off the key ring and stick the ring itself into the bag, pushing on the lopsided blue door to the garage office, a new cigarette dangling from your lips.

A laughing toy sounds when you enter in place of a bell. A rough-looking woman stands behind a clean wood counter top gouged and pitted with use, age, and angry bosses. Her skin is pock-marked with acne or meth scars, her teeth false on the bottom even though she looks like she could be _younger_  than you. The sound of spraying fills the empty space of the garage.

“Yea?” she asks, sizing you up quick. She’s staring rudely at the tattoo on your neck. Her blue coveralls have a name scrawled in white threaded letters: Angie. Never would have guessed.

You clear your throat, “I’m trading the Porsche.” The woman steps toward the garage window, eyeing the car you parked. Nodding, she motions for you to wait and heads into the back room.

“Wait here a minute while I check yours out,” she mutters, walking slowly out the front door, starting the Porsche. You watch her out the window of the office, hearing the sports car being driven a short distance. The engine cuts off and she walks in, nodding to you. The sound of spraying stops for a moment.

You watch the half-door swing as she heads out back to a yard full of cars, trucks, and bikes. Hearing keys jingle, a car sputters and stalls. Keys are tossed back inside onto the wooden floor - CHING. Another set of keys is taken off a table this time, a loud GRRRooowwlll as a fierce sounding engine starts. She revs it a few times and when the car remains running, she comes back in, placing the key on the counter top. You place the Porsche key beside the one she’s offering you and stare at her.

“My boy’ll gas it up before you go. Give ‘im a minute, we got a pump out back.” You nod, pistol still in your hand as you wait, taking the new car’s key with your left hand. Staring out into the early evening sky - some of the clouds have cleared, few stars visible outside now.

“It’s ready, Ma’” a voice calls from out back. Angie whistles to you, motioning you to follow her out the front and around the back to get your new ride. You follow quickly, more than ready to get moving again.

 

****♣♣♣♣** **

 

_“Yeah, boss, she just left.”_

_“How long ago?,” the curt voice asks._

_“Less than a minute.”_

_“Good boy, you’re quick. Unlike your mama,” the crime lord’s voice rings out loudly enough for his mother to hear over the receiver._

_The young man scowls at the phone, fist clenching and unclenching. “We did just like you said.”_

_“And, buddy boy?” The phone falls from his hand as his boss swaggers through the door of his mom’s shop. The Joker’s mouth remains open after his question, his grill glinting in the low light._

_“She won’t make it outta the Alley ‘for she runs outta gas. I drilled a hole in ‘a tank.”_

_“Good!” his boss grins, leaving as quickly as he’d appeared._

_“It’s ON, boys! Go git’ ‘er,” the Clown Prince drawls theatrically, hands swirling an imaginary lasso._

__

****♣♣♣♣** **

****

The new sports car handles well, and with a full tank of gas things are looking up. Edward would maybe have a chance in hell of surviving this after all, Maybe. Unable to believe it’d been so easy to trade the cars, you sigh with relief, speeding along the road, looking for any sign leading you toward the Sprang.

Hearing a motorcycle gaining on you, you clench your fingers around the steering wheel and hit the gas harder - forcing the car to jolt forward.

With no lines painted on the road, the bike sails by you easily, going so fast you don’t get a clear look at the driver. Possibly male, no distinctive markings on the bike or the driver. Choosing to ignore it, you keep your eyes on the road ahead, looking for any damn sign to tell you how close or far you might be to Robbinsville to find the entrance of the Sprang Bridge.

Two minutes pass before you hear another bike, looking in your rearview to see quite a few more, all of them keeping pace with you.

Well, fuck. That isn’t going to be good, is it?

Easing off the gas, you see if they pass, but they keep pace, slowing down as well. Deciding to give it a last-ditch effort, you try to floor it, but the car continues to lose speed, a splashing sound forcing you to turn your head and gaze at the road behind you. A steady stream of liquid is spewing from the bottom of the “new” sports car. The warning light comes on to indicate that there’s something wrong with the fuel line. Cursing, you press the gas, slamming your fist into the steering wheel when it stalls, coasting to a dead stop in the middle of the road, about twenty feet from the fucking “Robbinsville . . .10” sign.

Making sure the doors are locked, you suck a slow, deep breath in through your nose and reach toward the Mark III on the seat beside you, careful to face forward. A tapping noise at your window has you halting your reach, a maniacal grin greeting you. He lifts his many-ringed hand to tap each ring in succession against the window this time, showing impatience. You unlock the door, ready to surrender to avoid his wrath, not quite sure why he was looking for you to begin with. Does he know about Murphy already?

The Joker halts his next tap on the window to listen to the door unlock and pulls the door slowly open, browbone raised to wrinkle his forehead.

“Slowly now, Kitten,” he purrs, motioning with his 1911 for you to step out. You do as he bids, keeping your hands up in a sign of peace. As soon as you’re out of the car, he locks the door, kicking it closed - sealing you off from the gun inside.

Turning your head to look behind the dead car, you see a small ocean of motorcycles with various riders and a purple Vaydor at the very back amongst the sea. Clever. It’s not for you though - all this fanfare. He’s up to something else.

His gun is to the back of your head as he takes something metallic and snaps it cleanly around your dominant wrist. He cuffs your hands in front of you.

“Not taking any chances, _Doll_ ,” he says quietly, running his tongue over his top teeth. With you in his custody, the crime lord swaggers toward his car, arm-in-arm with you as if he’s escorting you on a date.

“You killed another of mine,” he whispers, close enough that his scarlet lower lip brushes your ear. You shudder at the contact. When you don’t reply, he jerks you to a stop and roughly grabs your chin, staring hard into your face.

“Yes,” you answer, not wanting him to get angrier than he already must be. He tisks and shakes his head, roughly letting go of your face. Removing his white dress shirt, he drapes it over the side mirror of the Vaydor, the cloth swinging as the breeze picks up.

“Now, I have to make an example of you, Doll. Show the people who work for me that I haven’t gone. . .soft,” and with that he slips the knife from your pocket. “Because here I am . . . wasting. My. Time,” he says, slapping you across the face hard, his rings cutting your cheek open.

“And _tiiime _.__  Is. Money,” he continues, knocking you to your knees.

“Finding **_disobedient_**  bitches _ _,__ ” he swings the knife before you can react, embedding it into your side, “costs.” 

You scream in agony, dropping to your knees, saliva seeping between your clenched teeth in a line of spit that hits the dry dirt with a soft patter. Shock lights your eyes though you should be used to the brutality of his punishment by now.

He raises his right hand to your face, his fingers spreading wide so his thumb can graze your jaw - touch incredibly gentle. With the knife embedded in your side, you gasp for air around the pain. Every breath is labored, moves your body, makes it hurt so bad you feel faint. Trying to sit still, your split cheek bleeds down the line of your jaw. 

He’s angry still, teeth showing in a line of white and silver, clenched, lips parted. But his touch is gentle and your eyelids flutter, your body wanting to rest, needing to rest. Too much, it’s too much. . .

“Ladies and gentleman,” he calls as if making a grand pronouncement as he stands fluidly from his squat before you, opening the door to his car. “ ** _GO_**.” 

Like ants avoiding the rain - his people scatter. Your throat convulses around the spit you try to swallow, too afraid to touch the knife to pull it out. You make a pathetic noise in the back of your throat, like a wounded animal, kneeling in the dirt in front of the Joker’s car. 

“Now that you’re all . . . _comfy_ ,” he says lowly, his voice terrifying as his teeth gleam at you. He leans your head back by your hair, his grasp firm but not painful, fingertips circling against your scalp - the feeling both calming and terrifying.

“We’re going to get a few things straight,” He leans into you, his face close, his grin gone, eyes penetrating.

“Never. Never _never_ NEVER,” he screams, eyes going completely mad, his lips trembling, “disappoint me again. Ever. . .because if you do, Doll.” and he spins away as if he can’t entertain the thought, fingers curling into claws, face contorting into something ugly and dark. He spins back to you, “If you do . . .” and he grins now, cackling, madness taking over his features as his eyes widen and he watches the tears drip from your eyes.

He grinds his teeth, “I’ll kill ya.” 

“And _**DOOOLLL**_ ,” he drawls in warning, the last word loud in the quiet of the empty road. Waves crash distantly against land, the sound carrying in the open air. Wind whips your hair into your face, stinging the bruised skin, sticking to the bloody spit on your cheek. Without warning, The Joker yanks the knife from your side - a strangled scream escaping your lips as blood oozes out of your wound in a small river, seeping into the fabric of your jeans, dripping steadily onto the sandy ground. 

He brandishes your bloodied knife in front of you, sliding the very edge of the blade down your shirt. The sharp edge catches all the buttons and tears the thin little threads. The seams absorb your blood as the knife passes down, blotches setting in along the front seams. The little 4-holed plastic disks spew around you, bouncing off his dress shoes as he squats so he can stare eye-to-eye.

“I own you,” he purrs, his fingertips dragging down the scarred namesake he gifted you with. The last two letters are still sore, just starting to scab over, the shallow edges puckering.

The Boss grips the front of your shirt hard and yanks you forward, jostling the stab wound. A sob escapes your lips as you blindly reach forward, bracing yourself against his shoulders, hands shaking so badly he tenses beneath your touch. He allows the contact. Your hands shake harder as the blood flow does not slow and makes it hard to stay upright. He is solid and sturdy, muscle moving beneath your hands. 

He angles his head to the left, getting a good look at your face contorted in pain. Your muscles convulse in your side, making you cry out, tears blurring your vision. His left hand splays on the warm skin of your stomach, his right hand holding the knife edge to your throat.

“I know, Boss” you breathe - just a puff of air against his lips as a tear slides down your face and catches on the blade, cleaning a streak down to his waiting fingers. His cyan eyes watch the drip with fascination as it leaves a faint red tint on his skin, traveling to the side of his wrist you can’t see.

“You’re on your last life, Kitten.” You hold your breath, too afraid to look away, your eyes on his, your own lips and body trembling as tears streak your face. He swipes a hand through his hair, smoothing it back. His palm falls off your stomach, knife being thumbed closed. He tucks it into the breast pocket of your ruined button-down. The added weight makes your shirt sag open, baring your plain white bra.

The Joker’s profile is to you as he watches the reeds on the far side of the road dip and sway in the strong river breeze. Thunder rumbles far off in the distance, gray clouds starting to blot out the remaining dapples of sunlight. 

“Stay with me a while, Doll,” he calls teasingly over his shoulder, pulling you up from your kneeling position. “Though being on your knees _does_  suit you, ha HA,” he cackles as he walks toward his car. There’s no humor in that laugh, his grip tight. He doesn’t jostle you more than necessary and you start to wonder over your attachment to this man. . . the one who just _stabbed_  you. The stream of thought becomes somewhat hysterical as your body tries to shut down. 

He turns to you, smirking, “now, Kitten. No bleeding on my seats, or I’m going to have to stow you like luggage. Ya’ hear?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter was a bitch. I've been working on it since my last post. It still doesn't quite feel right, but it's time to move this shit forward once more. I've had that stabbing scene FOREVER, and finally found a place it kinda fits. Thank you for taking the time to read this <3


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